Denial
by TheSilentPen
Summary: 'You wish that Rachel Berry had taken your virginity over sleazy Noah Puckerman.' A drunk Rachel kisses Quinn at Puck's party. Who knew a single kiss would destroy Quinn's perfect life and rebuild it anew?
1. Kiss

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee or any of its characters.

**A/N:** So I decided to do a Quinn/Rachel fic about waaay back in season 1. It's going to be a couple parts. Not a long multi-chapter fic. But I felt like I wanted to write this one. It'll have a happy ending, don't worry. Though it will include some angst (Quinn's going to be having a religious breakdown and Rachel will fight her own demons). Let's just pretend that Rachel actually HAS drunk before the events of _Blame It On the Alcohol_ just for this fic :P Please **read** and **review** and enjoy :)

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><p><strong>Denial<strong>

TheSilentPen

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><p>Chapter 1: Kiss<p>

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><p>'<em>Alcohol tastes like paint,'<em> you dimly observe, wincing as you gingerly take a sip of the beer that some faceless teenager had pushed into your hand the second you arrived.

It's a week into fall football season, and as High School tradition dictates, that means that it's also **party** season.

Unfortunately, since the school's football team is too lame to even win a single game, there's less of an excuse to even throw a party. Especially when you're in a dead end, sleepy little town like Lima, Ohio.

But when you have a guy like Noah 'Puck' Puckerman (the dumb, mohawked, sex-obsessed member of the football team who happened to chase after Cougars in his shady pool cleaning business) around, there's always an excuse to have a party.

You wouldn't even be here, though, if Finn Hudson, your dimwitted yet sweet boyfriend, hadn't dragged you here. He's best friends with Puck, which is something you really don't understand, since the two boys are total opposites in every manner except their mutual love of video games, football, and a compulsive need to get laid.

Finn's been trained though, you muse as you choke down another burning sip of alcohol. He knows when to draw the line.

Of course, that's only after you'd smacked his hands away far more times than you can count after he tried to grope your breasts like some Neanderthal. After you'd listen to him moan and groan about how every other footballer's girl put out while you simply let him kiss you innocently… occasionally with tongue, if he had been particularly good about something.

You can honestly say that you don't enjoy it.

Finn's hands feel awkwardly large when they paw at your thigh. His stubble scratches your face up. He tastes like he hasn't brushed his teeth all day. The planes of his face are not enjoyable to caress. The rest of his body felt too hard, too much like a brick wall(with the exception of his 'puffy pastry nipples' as Santana had intoned all too often as the Jock ran around the field on his laps bare-chested) when he clasped you to his chest.

But you **need** Finn and his popularity. After all, you're Quinn Fabray: Christ Crusader, Eucharistic Minister, CCD Aide, Head Cheerio, and the shoe-in for Prom Queen.

The Head Cheerleader **always** dates the Quarterback. It's an unspoken truth of society. Something that **must** occur.

You're broken from your silent musing by some idiot crashing into you, sending you sprawling onto the couch.

You groan, pulling yourself up and making sure that not a bit of your yellow sundress (not the most ideal thing to wear to a party, you admit) is stained by the beer that has fallen from your hand. Your hazel eyes narrow as the person who bumped into you attempts to raise themselves on shaky arms.

Rich, dark chocolate makes your breath stop.

Dressed in a navy halter and black skinny jeans with some fashionable pumps, Rachel Berry observes your fallen form, glossy red lips parted and brown orbs glazed over with a haze of drunkenness.

Rachel Berry, the unfashionable, argyle slinging captain of New Directions Glee Club… the girl who spoke in long, verbose sentences that had your head spinning in class. The diva who NEVER let the copious amounts of slushy you ordered slung in her face get her down.

Rachel Berry, the girl that irked you, confused you, and that you hated for some unspoken reason. The girl whose skirt was always just a little too **low**… whose voice sent shivers down your spine as you hear it echo through the doors of the auditorium each day.

The girl lying prone over you, small body pressed against you in the most delicious ways…

Ways that you **shouldn't** be enjoying as a good little Catholic girl.

An unfamiliar heat coils low in your stomach, petite hands grazing your shoulders as the little brunette fights to stand up.

"'M sorry, Quinn… 'm jus' feelin' a little off balance today," she slurs in a deep, husky voice that is the antithesis to the sweet, chipper voice that you hear in the halls. Pulses of electricity send shivers running down your back.

"Treasure Trail, if you don't get off me right _now_," you spit, sitting up and holding the girl's wrists in your hands, "I'm going to make you **regret** your existence." Though you'd rather she stay where she is.

The brunette laughs. "Treasure Trail? You're 'unny… really really 'unny…" She stumbles a bit as you push her roughly to her feet, leaning on your shoulder as she fights to regain her balance.

"Whoa there," you steady her, "don't wanna fall and break that nose of yours, Streisand, despite the fact that it's a total abomination."

"Thaaaanks," she laughs, grabbing your face in her hands, "'s really sweet of you to care… 'M gonna go andddd wait outside for my Dadsssss…" she pauses a moment. "They're gaaay… y'know?"

You chuckle. "So I've heard… You need any help?"

"Nope… 'm fine… 'm just a bit unsteady," she pats your cheeks, "soooo 'mahhhh be fineee… lemme say g'bye."

"Goodbye?"

And before you can question anything, Rachel Berry has pulled you into a firm kiss. One that makes you feel absolutely gooey inside… one that makes very corner of your body light up in ways that **Finn**'s kisses have never.

But just as soon as it happens, it's over, and Rachel is gone, the only piece of evidence that the whole thing hadn't been just some horrible (well, not horrible, but you won't admit that) dream? The heavy taste of mint chapstick on your lips.

You panic as you return to your senses.

You just enjoyed a kiss.

With a **girl**.

Oh. God.

What would your father say? He'd disown you. You were going to go to Hell… you were going to get **kicked out** if that happened.

No. No, you're not gay. It was all just a stupid accident. Treasure Trail kissed you. You didn't kiss her. The frickin' 'fireworks' that you felt were a result of the light buzz from the alcohol you'd consumed.

'_I'm straight,'_ you chant endlessly in your mind as you slip down onto the couch. '_I'm straight…_ _I'm not __**gay**__. It was just a fluke… Dear God, I am sorry for my sins with __**all**__ my heart…'_

The prayer continues in your mind as you draw your hands around your shoulders and fight the urge to cry. So engrossed in your thoughts, you hardly notice the muscular arm around you, pulling you into a well-toned side as a wine cooler dangles in front of your face.

"Hey sweetheart," a deep baritone echoes in your ear. Noah Puckerman. "Have a little bit of alcohol… you look like shit."

You let out a strangled laugh as you take the bottle in your hands, pulling off the cap and downing the sweet liquid.

"What do you want, Puck?" you whisper, looking up into brown eyes. If they were a shade darker… they'd be the same rich red brown as _**hers**__. _You shake the thoughts from your head as you take another swig from the bottle in your hand.

"You looked a little down," he leans over, warm breath washing against your ear, making you feel **cheap** and **dirty**… not like with Rachel, "…and Puckasaurus is a gentleman. He doesn't like it when pretty ladies cry."

"Why I'm crying is none of your business, Puckerman," you glare at him, though in your slightly buzzed state, there's really no effect.

"Calm down, Fabray," a hand goes to your leg, "I'm just here to… **heal** you. A pretty girl like you deserves a little lovin' when she feels craptastic."

For the second time that night, lips capture yours tentatively, and you want to smack Puck. Throw him off of you. Knee him in the balls for being such a pervert.

Because kissing Noah Puckerman is terrible. He's biting at your lips, he's pawing at your upper thigh, and he's shoving his tongue down your throat. He makes you feel cheap and used, and it's not a pleasant feeling.

At least Rachel had been gentle. At least she was soft in **all** the right ways. At least when she touched you, it was with reverence, like you were some treasured artifact.

But Puck's a **boy**. He's attractive... acceptable (barring the whole bad boy image and the fact that he's a Jew)**. **You **should** feel something when you kiss him.

So you kiss back, praying to feel something, anything to prove that you're straight.

And that's also why when Puck pulls back and asks you to go upstairs with him, you blearily nod your head and agree.

But when he's on top of you, you shut your eyes and tears begin to leak from your eyes. It hurts **so badly** that you want to crawl away from him… to scream, to stop him **somehow**. But instead you keep all your pain instead and keep lids covered over hazel orbs.

Instead, you imagine that Puck's hulking figure is replaced with one much smaller and much more delicate. That his deep, rough voice is replaced by a musical mezzo soprano. That the hands that hold your shoulders in their vice-like grip are delicate, not-manly hands that trace your body like a piece of rare china. Short, trimmed hair is replaced by curling, wavy brown locks.

And lecherous, lust glazed eyes transform to soft, red tinted, chocolate eyes that gleam with some sort of love.

That night, you whisper Rachel's name as Puck slumps atop you, falling unconscious.

And that night, after you leave Puck's room, after you wash away the specter of his touch beneath the harsh spray of the shower, and after you throw your 'party clothes' to the back of your closet to be forgotten…

You sit in bed and cry…

And wish that Rachel Berry had taken your virginity instead of sleazy Noah Puckerman…

And you **really** wish Rachel was there with you right now to hold you and dry the tears from your cheeks

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><p><strong>AN:** I'm thinking that this will be a pretty short little story. So I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading :) Please leave me your thoughts!


	2. Falling From Grace

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Glee or any of these characters, OR anything from Spring Awakening (with the exceptions of Dallas Shook and Joshua Bayani) :).

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><p><strong>AN:** I never liked how Glee made Rachel so completely friendless. I mean, she **did** go to tons of outside classes (it's part of the obsessive compulsive Rachel Berry need to be amazing) so she was bound to make some friends outside of McKinley. So I decided to give Rachel two guy friends :). Thanks to **Cassicio, Stessa, Darcey-Jess, CarmellaD'Winter,** and **spizle**. Your comments really encouraged me to write! Please **read** and **review** so I know that you guys enjoyed/know what to fix next chapter :) Thank you!

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><p>Chapter 2: Falling From Grace<p>

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><p>The weekend following your 'accident' with Puck is uneventful. You spend the day locked in your room, clutching desperately at your pillows and blankets, tears falling from your swollen eyes as you relive each and every single painful moment of Puck's rough touch.<p>

It makes you cringe and shiver to think of those inconsiderate digits trailing up your thigh, leaving an invisible trail of slime in their wake as they did things that you **never** would have wanted if you had been sober.

But damned Noah Puckerman got you drunk, took advantage of your vulnerability, and slept with you. He **used** you when he **knew** you were insecure in yourself. Now he'd spread the fact that he got the Celibacy Club's 'holier than thou' President to warm his bed, as another notch in his bedpost of countless women he'd had sex with.

You want to crawl into yourself and **die**. You want to close your eyes and pretend nothing ever happened.

But every time you close your eyes, the phantom touches of Puck's meaty fingers play across your chest. You can't escape it, no matter **how **much you want to.

Part of you blames **Rachel Berry** for everything that happened. If she hadn't kissed you, if she hadn't **made** you get drunk, then you NEVER would have been insecure enough for Puck to take advantage of you.

Quinn Fabray is headstrong, beautiful, and self-confident. She doesn't ALLOW boys to take advantage of her. **She** is in control in the relationship.

But damn Rachel Berry had to come along and kiss you. She had to make Quinn hide in the dark and have insecure, ugly little Lucy with her awkward tendencies rise up from the mental prison her stronger ego had long since put around her quivering frame.

Fear paralyzes your every synapse as you think of that kiss. How it electrified you. How much it made you _feel_ things you didn't want to feel.

How soft Rachel was against you, how light and reverent her fingers were against your cheek, the sinfully delicious mixture of her mint chapstick and the soft texture of her lips moving against yours. All those things come flooding back into your mind, making a tendril of want rise low in your belly.

Psalms fall brokenly from your lips as you close pale lids over hazel eyes.

It was the alcohol. The devil's drink. You'd never love kissing her otherwise, right? You loved Finn… you **enjoyed** sleeping with Puck.

But you can't lie to yourself. That's a **greater** sin. But at the same time, you just **can't **accept the fact that God would let this occur. You can't believe that after everything you'd done for Him: the years of community service, of teaching little children scripture, serving the church during mass, practicing celibacy, and founding Christ Crusaders… you just can't believe that He'd make you the one thing the Church deemed the greatest of evils.

And you can't believe that He would allow you to sleep with a Jew.

Sure, you weren't the greatest of Catholics. But you didn't deserve what He had done to you. You didn't deserve to have your worst fears realized.

Monday comes much too quickly.

You're back, hiding behind the Cheerios uniform and that implacable mask you've become accustomed to wearing is back in place yet again. Santana is at your right, Brittany at your left, and it almost seems that things are back to normal.

As if the weekend never happened.

But as soon as you see Noah Puckerman heading towards you, your mask breaks for a fraction of a section, uncertainty and fear clouding your features, before cruelty fights its way back.

His mouth opens, and he's about to speak to you. About to talk about that weekend, before you put him in place with one simple comment.

"Out of the way, Puckerman. Unlike you, I need to get to class so I'm not stuck here as a Lima Loser."

'_I don't want to talk about this weekend_,' is truly the unconscious message that you want to send to him. And his lips clasp firmly together, hurt flashing in his light brown orbs as you push past him, indifference strong in your stride.

As you turn the corner, you see Rachel Berry standing at her locker, singing idly as she throws slushy stained clothes and textbooks into the interior, shifting her new messenger bag idly on her arm.

The girl is wearing her usual travesty of sinfully short plaid skirts and an argyle sweater vest on top of a clean white oxford shirt, Mary Janes shining brightly in the fluorescent lighting.

Though the face is the same, the irresistible lips right down to the last curl in the dark hair, this isn't the same girl you kissed on Friday. This is annoying Rachel Berry that you slushy and mock daily. Not the laughing, ditzy, drunk, and beautiful woman that daringly pressed her lips to yours.

A twinge of fear finds its way into your heart. What if she tells? What if she wants to talk to you?

But that is erased from your mind when Rachel ignores your passing, as well as the fact that you'd taken up residence on the wall next to her (your locker resides a few down from hers). In fact, other than the brief glance at Brittany and Santana after their daily insult, she'd hardly spared a glance at you.

You're relieved but furious at the same time. How **dare** she just pretend that nothing happened? How could she not remember that **she** kissed you? _No one_ kisses Quinn Fabray and _forgets_ about it.

But then again, it's better for your reputation if you play dumb.

Your train of thoughts is broken as a high-pitched squeal makes it to your ears.

Two tall boys were standing beside Rachel's locker. One with dark brown, curly hair, spins the diva in muscular arms, giving a rich chuckle into silky locks. The other, with spiky black hair, a deep tan, and almond shaped eyes, leans against the row of lockers with his arms crossed and a silent smile on his handsome face.

You take a minute to study them as they speak in low, soothing tones to the little diva. You've never seen them around school before. You know every face in your class. Know whether they're popular or whether they're at the bottom of the food chain.

But these boys are not from William McKinley. They're good enough looking to be on the upper half of the food chain. Well-muscled enough to be on some sort of sports team.

They don't belong to McKinley's elite.

Some foreign emotion, mixed with obscene amounts of anger, wells within your chest as you observe the taller of the two, the black-haired boy, leans down to place two kisses on each of Rachel's cheeks. A bizarre cocktail that strengthens as the petite girl reaches up to return the gesture in kind.

Your fists clench as you paint a deceivingly sweet smile on your face, slamming your locker shut before taking several strides over to the trio (Santana and Brittany close behind you, staring at the two boys with a mixture of lust and curiosity).

"Rachel," you try as hard as you can to keep the animosity out of your voice.

Rachel's rich chocolate eyes turn to look up at you as the genuine smile on her lips fades to that of her show face (the unknown monster in your chest seems to double at this) as the smiles of the two boys beside her fade to anger. They clearly know who you are, you observe as the brown haired boy's hand shakes with restraint.

One small hand goes to the torso of the black haired boy, rubbing gently.

"Quinn, what can I do for you this fine Monday morning?" she asks cordially.

"Who are your," you take a pause to glare at each of them, "friends? I can't say I've seen them around campus before."

"I'm Dallas Shook," the brown haired boy adjusts the sleeves on his flannel shirt, gray eyes narrowing in distaste.

"Joshua Bayani," the other echoes, taking one of Rachel's small hands in his own.

"Dallas and Joshua," Rachel cuts in, seeing Dallas open his mouth, "are my friends from theatre camp. They live a couple hours away… they're here to visit and shadow me for the day."

You smile as sweetly as you can. "Well… that's all I needed to know. I was a bit curious as to why I didn't recognize your faces. My name is Quinn," you hold out a hand, "Quinn Fabray."

"I know," Joshua mumbles, Rachel jabbing his side and forcing a hand out to meet yours.

"Now that we're all introduced, I believe it's time that Joshua, Dallas, and I went to class," she grabs both boys by the hand before hauling them down the hallway in record time.

The day passes quickly. You notice Rachel going from class to class occasionally, Joshua and Dallas surrounding her protectively, glaring at every jock that comes within an inch of the little diva.

Every time you see their hands entwined with Rachel's tanned fingers (more often Joshua's than Dallas's) it makes you die a little inside and throws you for a loop.

Since _when_ do you care that **Rachel Berry** has a support system? Has people that actually like her?

You're the head cheerleader **and** you have the cutest boy on your arm as your boyfriend. It shouldn't matter whether RuPaul has a couple of friends.

But somehow it **does**, because the hands that the boys clasp so comfortably are _your_ hands, and the lips that caress their strong jaws are _your_ lips.

And every time you think of Rachel as **yours**, a fresh stream of prayers is at your lips and playing on loop in your mind. '_I am not gay. I am not gay. I am not gay…'_

During Cheerios practice, you run the girls extra hard. It works to get Rachel Berry and Noah Puckerman off your mind. Coach Sylvester's constant screaming, which you usually find annoying, acts as a deterrent against the stream of thoughts that fights its way into your mind.

But on the walk from the gym to your car, the sounds of piano and violin echo across the empty halls and pique your interest.

The faint, plinking echoes forth from the auditorium's metal doors. One door is slightly ajar, allowing the sound to ooze forth from the belly of the theatre.

You slip silently inside, seeing a dark silhouette occupying the stage, a lone spotlight illuminating the features of Dallas, Rachel's friend. Off to the side, the ever silent pianist, Brad, sits with his back to the boy, along with a pianist, drummer, and a violinist.

The piano swells forth, Joshua's tall figure coming forth from the bleak darkness as a rich tenor strikes your ears. It's one of the most **beautiful** male voices you've ever heard, joining delicately with the piano's burst of emotion.

"_Those you've known…"_ the words issue flawlessly from his lips as he steps forward, kneeling beside Dallas. "_And lost, still walk behind you… All alone. They linger till they find you_."

Dallas shivers, eyes looking about for something intangible as the music swells.

"_Without them… the world grows dark around you. And nothing is the same… until you know that they have found you."_

"You… you had the right idea," Dallas' voice pierces the growing silence as he pulls a knife from his pocket, the blade glinting wickedly in the spotlight. "I'll scatter a little Earth… and thank their God!"

He makes to slit his throat, convincing agony written on every feature of his face. You want to scream out 'stop!' (even though the blade in his hand is clearly a prop), but another voice rises from the darkness, a voice that you know **so** well.

"_Those you've pained… may carry that still with them," _Rachel Berry steps forth from the darkness of the theatre, hauntingly beautiful voice filling the theatre to the brim with aching sadness. The girl's face is once more transfigured, the usually smiling features contorted into those of anguish. Anguish that you'd seen haunt her face every time you'd called her a terrible name. "_All the same, they whisper 'all forgiven.' Still your heart says the shadows bring the starlight. And everything you've ever been is still there in the dark night._"

The singer takes a knee beside the sobbing figure of the actor as her voice joins with that of Joshua's, soaring over the theatre, convincing… persuading.

You watch Rachel's face earnestly, engrossed with every emotion that plays over the unique planes.

It's moments when Rachel performs that you hate her the most. It tells you that she'll be able to get out of sleepy Lima. It tells you that someday, she'll be somewhere where **you** aren't. That she'll **forget** you and go on to better things.

Because while you have domain over the slushy stained halls of McKinley High, Rachel Berry will **always** have domain over the hearts and minds of millions of people that come to see her perform.

You'll disappear.

She'll continue forever.

Rachel is always most vulnerable when she performs. She wears her heart on her sleeve for her performances. You've always known that, ever since you first saw her perform '_Silent Night'_ at the Christmas Pageant in second grade.

And this Rachel Berry you see on stage is raw, uncertain, and pleading. It's a side of Rachel that you've **never** seen in any of her performances.

You feel tears trail down your cheeks in silent streams as you close your eyes, feeling your heart beat wildly against its bony prison as Rachel's voice sends chills down your spine.

You know now. **Know** that there's some part of you that _feels_ something for Rachel Berry. That's dragged forth and grows whenever you hear her sing. And it scares you.

It scares you so badly, that you stand up in the middle of the song, quietly exiting the auditorium as the lyrics of the song scald your heart.

As the raw, melancholy features of Rachel's face etch themselves into your mind's eye.

And as you try to swallow down that part of you that feels something for Rachel.

Because Quinn Fabray can't love Rachel Berry.

Quinn Fabray isn't a sinner.

Quinn Fabray isn't gay.

Quinn Fabray is _perfect_.

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><p>But it turns out Quinn Fabray isn't as perfect as she thinks she is.<p>

About six weeks after Puck's party, you're sitting at the table, eating a small serving of oatmeal, alone as usual (your father and mother are out of town on a trip), when your stomach turns violently.

The nausea is so intense, it sends you running across the house to the bathroom.

You heave over the toilet, emptying out the contents of dinner and breakfast in a gruesome mixture.

As you gather yourself together, dread fills every pore of your body as you faintly remember that you **haven't** had your period yet.

And you can't remember, for the life of you, if Puck even used protection the night he slept with you.

You skip first period, calling in sick, to walk down to the pharmacy down the street in a pair of black sweats and one of Finn's OSU Pullovers.

The cashier looks at you with some sort of pity etched across his weary features when you place several brands of pregnancy test onto the register. He hands you the bag with a small shake and sigh of his head, and you think you hear him uttering '_not another young one'_ under his breath as you leave.

As soon as you get home, you dry heave more, before taking each test, pacing across the floor nervously as you wait for the results.

"Please God, I can't be pregnant," you whisper to yourself, clasping at the cross 'round your neck while looking to the portrait of Jesus hanging on your wall. "Please don't let me be **pregnant**."

You go into the bathroom after the required amount of time passes, before looking at each individual test, shaking violently.

'_Positive.'_

Your faith in God, which has already waned to a small flicker of belief…

Dies.

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><p><strong>AN: **Bayani means 'Hero' in Tagalog (Filipino language) as my friend so kindly informed me while I wrote this chapter! The song that Dallas, Joshua, and Rachel sing is **Those You've Known** from the amazing musical, **Spring Awakening**. Thanks for reading... and please **review **so I know what to work on! :)


	3. Her Masks

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee, any of its characters, or Spring Awakening.

**A/N: **I couldn't resist using another Spring Awakening song. It was just such a perfect fit (that and I was listening to this song as I was trying to figure out how to approach this chapter). Thank you **yoha2405, Stessa, jupiter01, RVFlorida, The Lion Quinn, phoenixfaithc, **and **Cassicio** for their amazing support. Your reviews definitely helped to speed this chapter along! I felt so inspired. Please take time to **review** at the end if you can :) Enjoy

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><p>Chapter 3: Her Masks<p>

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><p>For the first time in your life, you have absolutely no idea what to do.<p>

When Quinn Fabray felt lost, all she had to do was ask her Heavenly Father, or be Daddy's perfect little angel and what she asked was usually solved within the week.

But your faith in God died the moment those two black little lines appeared on pregnancy test after pregnancy test. And you **know** you can't ask Daddy's help or else he'd hold an exorcism…

Or disown you.

So it's up to you: get an abortion or have the spawn of a _boy_ (Noah Puckerman is no man, you decide, men take responsibility for their actions) that took advantage of you.

It's cruel irony, you laugh to yourself, running shaking hands over your face. You always used to harp on about the evils of abortion during every CCD class you'd ever assisted at. The women who aborted were the worst of sinners. They thought only of themselves when they committed the act of murdering their own child.

But now you're in those women's shoes. You know what it's like to have your world fall to pieces around you. To have your faith taken from you and stomped on till nothing remains but the itty bitty morals that are ingrained into your blood after years of religious conditioning.

Abortion is the only way you can save face. The only way you can retain your popularity, the only way you can keep your dumb boyfriend, and the only way your parents will **ever** continue look at you as their heaven sent angel (though booze always seems to come before **you** now).

'_It's also_,' you absentmindedly think to yourself, '_the only way to keep Rachel from thinking less of me than she already does_.'

You go wide-eyed at this thought, shaking your head and slathering a fresh strain of excuses down. '_It's just the pregnancy… the hormones are making me think strangely.'_

You can't deal with a gay panic right now. You're 16, pregnant with the school man whore's child, and you've lost your religion all within the course of six weeks.

But there's something about thinking of Rachel Berry's voice and smile that makes calms you. That soothes the ache in your soul and makes everything seem sorta okay in this crummy situation.

You find yourself opening Rachel's MySpace page, tapping your fingers against the mahogany stain of your desk impatiently as your computer loads slowly, and clicking on the newest video before you can even **remember** when you turned on your laptop.

There, standing before the camera in a pair of jeans and a gray, fitted _Les Misérables_ t-shirt is Rachel Berry. It stuns you a little, because you've never seen Rachel look so **normal** in your entire life, aside from the party getup she wore at Puck's party.

Something in your stomach flutters when the little brunette gives a genuine smile at the lens of her camera, and you **really** want to blame it on the baby. But it's too early for that, so you have to numbly accept the truth that it's **Rachel** that's making you feel all sorts of admiration and other things you don't want to feel.

"Hello everyone," Rachel gives a tentative wave at the audience, "I've been experimenting around with a few songs from _Spring Awakening_ lately… and you know, there's just…"

The singer pauses, contemplating her next words, pink tongue peeking out from between white teeth as chocolate brown eyes glaze over in concentration. It's singlehandedly one of the most adorable things you've ever seen, and it makes you want to melt right there in your chair.

"There's a song that I really feel like performing," Rachel gives a bashful little smile. "It's usually sung by a man… but the lyrics ring true about **so** many things."

"Nothing is black and white," the little diva continues, sitting down on her bed, hand disappearing off frame and pulling out a beautiful acoustic guitar, unchaining the pick around her neck, "and people in this town are narrow-minded. But someday…"

A slender hand strums the notes steadily, a litany of notes cascading forth from the instrument's hollow body.

"Someday I'm going to get out of this place. Someday I'm going to show people that they're wrong. And I **know** that I will because I believe in myself and everything that I stand for. I carve my own path."

Rachel looks up from her guitar, and for a second, you can almost feel her eyes locking with yours. "Those of you who are struggling with something in your life… Some close-mindedness… something that you don't trust yourself with… whatever it is, you aren't alone."

Your breath catches in your throat.

"This is for you."

The little diva starts to strum, stopping every so often to give a gentle tap on the side of the guitar's body. It continues as such for a few chords before Rachel's eyes close, brown locks falling across her face.

"_All that's known, in history and in science. Overthrown. At school, at home by blind men."_

There's a certain rage in Rachel's voice. That same familiar look of melancholy and painful understanding from that day still etched fresh in ever crease of her face.

"_You doubt them, and soon they bark and hound you. Till everything you say is another bad about you."_

"_All they say is 'trust what is written.'_ _Wars are made, and somehow that is wisdom_."

"_Thought is suspect, and money is their idol. And nothing is okay unless it's scripted in their bible."_

Rachel's fingers move deftly over the strings, switching from chord to chord.

"_But I know there's so much more to find just looking through myself, and not at them!"_

_ "Still I trust my own mind and say there's a way through this! On I go to wonder and to learning, name the starts and know their dark returning."_

_ "I'm calling to know the world's true yearning. The hunger that a child feels for everything they're shown."_

Rachel's voice assaults your senses. She disarms you, strengthens you. The lyrics ring true to your ears. They strengthen you, take away your frustrations. At that moment it feels as if someone understands you for the first time in a **long** time.

Rachel knew what it was like to be ostracized. Lima, Ohio was intolerant of anything out of the norm, including homosexuality. Because her Fathers were gay, Rachel had faced adversity her entire life.

The same type of adversity that would no doubt be flung at your face.

Because at that moment, you make your decision.

You'll have the baby. No one deserved to be deprived of life. Not even the tiniest form of life.

A hand goes to grace your abdomen, clutching there at the fabric.

It won't be easy, but you know you can do it. You're Quinn Fabray, for God's sake. And Quinn Frickin' Fabray can do **anything**, especially after Cheerios Camp with Sue Sylvester.

Drowsiness falls over you in thick waves. You close your eyes, and as you fall asleep, you can hear Rachel's gentle voice over the computer's speakers.

"…Goodnight everyone…"

Sound fades out, the room falls to darkness, and you know nothing.

* * *

><p>You decide that the only way you can retain some of your power is to drag your boyfriend down with you.<p>

You are, after all, the head Cheerio, and he **is** the Quarterback… and, grudgingly you admit, the best man for the title of 'father.'

Finn is sweet, considerate, albeit a little dumb and whiny. But between him and Puck (who sleeps with every moving thing, does drugs, and is the antithesis to everything your parents wanted of you) he's the lesser of the two evils.

At school the next day, you drag Finn aside and break the news to him. The man child falls for it hook, line, and sinker after you spout off some nonsense about how he came (you see his eyes dart nervously around the student body for any indication that someone's listening) in the Jacuzzi and the fact that it strengthened his sperm, thereby getting you pregnant and pulling a total immaculate conception.

A **smart** guy would have known that there was some bullshit up with that story. But Finn's not a smart guy. You feel guilty as you watch Finn's face crumble into a mask of horror and devastation, but you have to stay on top. You grip your binder tighter, the tears falling thickly from your eyes. You **need** Finn.

Finn says that he'll support you, no matter the cost, because 'my kid isn't gonna be poor.'

The two of you mutually agree that you will remain on the Cheerios for as long as you can. Might as well ride the waves while they still exist, you both figure. After all, the fall from the top will not be pretty, of that you're sure.

Things are stable for quite some time. You're able to deal with the morning sickness, for the most part. You pass it off to your teachers as a reaction to a new diet you're trying out that you can't seem to adjust to. Puck hasn't been tipped off by his best friend about your 'condition' though you feel his dark eyes upon you each time you breeze down the hall.

Rachel remains as chatty and bubbly as ever. Despite the fact that you've upped the amount of slushy facials on her (you still take to blaming her ritually for the fact that you're pregnant), Rachel continues on smiling cordially and spouting off random tangents about her assured future on Broadway.

It annoys you. This Rachel. Because she lacks the carefree air of the Rachel who kissed you and the all knowing, understanding personality that you've seen only twice in all the years that you've known Rachel.

But at the same time, this Rachel is admirable. Because she knows exactly what she wants and guns for it no matter what the cost. She's kind to a fault and knows exactly what a person needs to hear to succeed. She's a team leader and a self-confident, powerful personality.

There's so many different masks that Rachel Berry seems to wear. Who **is** Rachel Berry? Is she a neurotic perfectionist that captains the cause of a gleekdom? Is she a ditzy, fun-loving party girl? Is she a somber crusader for the voiceless and misunderstood?

Rachel Berry is an enigma. That is the only thing that you can state about her with due certainty.

All Hell breaks loose when Finn is forced to join the damn New Directions to serve time for dealing drugs (is Finn really even _smart_ enough to know how to contact a dealer?).

Glee Club was social suicide. Filled to the brim with the lowest of the low on McKinley's menu. It's a place where a star Quarterback like Finn shouldn't even be allowed to **think** about going.

Which raises questions about you being Finn's 'Big Gay Beard.' You can take that abuse, since you can silence that opinion with a few slushies and a fine dose of terror.

But you **can't** silence the oncoming buzz that Rachel Berry is very much smitten with Finn, and it seems like Finn likes her as well.

Still, you can't believe everything the walls say, so you ignore every **possible** indication put out by others.

Until you see Finn talking to Rachel in the hallway.

You've never seen such a big smile on Finn's face before, nor such enthusiasm on his face as he wildly gesticulates about something or other (no doubt one of his lame Call of Duty games). Leaning against the locker beside him, Rachel's smiling up at him with a strange sort of sparkle in her eye. It makes you more nauseated than even the most intense days of morning sickness so far and you find yourself clenching your fist unconsciously.

Nausea turns to outrage as you hear the tinkling, musical laughter issue forth from Rachel's throat. You've never been so angry before in your life, and you want to rip Finn Hudson apart for even **daring** to make Rachel Berry laugh.

You push off the back of the locker and head over, pasting on the sweetest smile you can muster.

"Finn." Almost instantaneously, the smile drops off the big moron's face and he looks down at the ground obediently.

"Quinn…" he whimpers.

You turn your head to spare Rachel a glance. "ManHands."

"Lovely to see you as well, Quinn," there's a bite of sarcasm in that melodic voice that gives you pause. Rachel Berry? Sarcastic…?

You concentrate back on your boyfriend, glaring daggers into his eyes, and you swear that you can almost see him **shake** beneath your gaze. "Finn, I need to talk to you."

His eyes dart between you and Rachel. "B-but R-Rach and I-I-."

"**Now**, Finn."

"It's okay Finn," and another ounce of anger mounts in your veins as Rachel gives Finn a small, yet genuine smile, "we can talk about our duet later, okay?"

Finn hesitantly walks a few paces a way before you turn and face Rachel, effectively trapping her against the locker as you lean in, eyes narrowed.

"I don't know what your game is, Treasure Trail," you grind down on your teeth, "but you need to **back off**. Finn's **my** boyfriend, and I'm asking you to **respect** my relationship with him. You can sing with him, you can dance with him, and you can get him to watch your gay little musicals, but you can't have him!"

Rachel's eyes flash in anger, and you mentally groan when the telltale tightening coils of some unknown emotion appear low in your stomach. "I can assure you, Quinn Fabray, that I hold no romantic ulterior motives in my interactions with Finn. My interests in him are simply musical and friendly in nature. I do not wish to pursue Finn, therefore there is no reason for you to tell me to 'back off.'"

"So now you're a **liar**, RuPaul?" you hiss out. God, Rachel smells like vanilla, cinnamon, and an assortment of other delicious spices that make your head spin. You try furiously to keep a hold on reality. "There's rumors all over this school about how you're all over him, and you still want to play dumb?"

"A girl **is** allowed to spend time with a boy without being **with** him," Rachel deflects. "Or **wanting** him. But personally, Finn is a tad on the less intelligent side of the spectrum. He lacks the proper mental capacity to be intellectually stimulating enough for me."

Rachel huffs, throwing your arm out of the way (you ignore the dangerous tingling on the area where her soft skin touched your arm, and pass it off as hormones) and stepping away from you. "Now if you'd excuse me, Quinn. I have a class to get to."

But just as she's about to step off down the hall, Dave Karofsky passes by and tosses a large Big Quench into (grape flavored) Rachel's face.

A stab of pain shoots into your heart as you watch Rachel's finely composed features fall and give way to utter sadness before once again hiding behind an indifferent, confident mask.

As Rachel stands there, you suddenly notice how Rachel's wet clothing show off previously unknown curves usually hidden by the style of her unflattering sweaters.

Your mouth goes dry as you watch a fine line of grape slush creep down Rachel's clavicle (you have the intense urge to bite it) and down into the modest bit of cleavage of Rachel's blindingly white oxford shirt.

The coiling in your stomach gets ten times worse, effectively sending you into a panicked frenzy. '_I gotta get out of here_,'rains continuously on in your mind as you try to walk away.

In your haste to get away, however, you fail to see the fact that pools of slushy have gathered beneath your white tennis shoes. You feel yourself slip, feel yourself fall to gravity.

You brace yourself for impact. An impact that never comes.

Because you can feel small, muscled arms supporting your back as well as the unappealing seep of freezing liquid through the material of your uniform top.

You didn't know you had closed your eyes, but you open them to see brown eyes gazing at you concernedly. There's dark brown locks falling into those eyes, and you know that Rachel caught you.

For a moment, you just stare at her, and she at you, while the whole of the hallway looks on in confusion.

Your eyes trace every crevice of Rachel's face. The way long lashes fringe the outside of those lovely, shining eyes that have now taken on a tender, yet melancholy edge to them. The eyes of the Rachel that performed with her companions and made that MySpace video, and the eyes of the everyday Rachel that you claim to loathe.

Rachel steadies you on your feet, looking wordlessly into your eyes, studiously sifting through the mess of emotions that you currently feel. The connection sears between you, then fizzles out forcefully when the girl turns on her heel and storms off down the hallway with all the finesse of a professional diva.

Your eyes never leave her retreating figure, even as Finn grabs you and holds you in his arms, one hand going tentatively to your stomach.

"Quinn, are you okay?"

A single blink, and you look up at Finn, dazed.

"Y-yes…"

"Th-thank God." You're shocked to see tears in Finn's eyes, confused at the sudden swell of emotions. "I-If you had fallen… Th-the baby…"

Shock pulses through your veins.

The baby. If you had fallen, who knows what would have happened to the baby? You could've lost it.

But Rachel, Rachel stopped you from falling. She saved your baby's life.

For once, you sink willingly into Finn's arms, allowing to him comb his fingers through your ponytail, your shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Rachel Berry's quickly becoming your own personal hero. From her sagely advice through her songs, now to the saving of your child's life, the little Diva is seemingly tied to you in ways that you cannot understand.

So for once, you let yourself think about Rachel without guilt clouding your musing.

And you know that Rachel is going to be a large part of your life from this point on. And you know that you feel something, something foreign welling up inside of you.

But at that moment, you don't really care.

In fact, deep inside…

You're happy.

* * *

><p>Coach Sylvester calls you, Brittany, and Santana into her office later that day.<p>

She sits the three of you down and tells you about how the Glee Club is 'stealing' a small amount of the Cheerios fortune, and how stupid William Schuester and his greasy, buttered locks have it in for the squad.

You know, however, that Will Schuester, who students affectionately call Mr. Schue, is a sweet (though his kumbayah mannerisms and hypocritical ways sometimes get to you) and compassionate man who goes out of his way to make others happy.

If anything, Sue is the one plotting Schue's downfall.

And your theory is proven right when moments later, sue commands the three of you to infiltrate the Glee Club disguised as new members.

Your heart leaps in your chest, though you hide it behind a veil of anger and cynicism. Now you have a chance.

A chance to keep Finn's paws off Rachel.

And a chance to unravel the elaborate tapestry that is Rachel Berry.

Later on, you will feel bitter about the assignment as you go through a new wave of repeatedly chanting "I am not gay" over and over to yourself in the mirror, searching for any sort of falsity.

But now?

Right now, you're the most happy you've been in a long time.

But you won't dare admit (nor do you think you truly know) that it's all because of one Rachel Berry.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thank you for reading :) The song that I used here is **All That's Known** from **Spring Awakening**. Please take the time to leave a review, as they help to inspire :)


	4. All Hell Breaks Loose

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee or any of its characters.

**A/N: **Great thanks to **Kino karutta-chan**, **diamondplatypus**, **Stessa**, **carouselhorse**, and **jupiter01** for their kind reviews. They definitely helped me to write this chapter. This is where my story deviates from Glee hugely. It's where the story becomes AU. I think that Rachel, personally, isn't stupid enough NOT to know that there's something going on between Puck and Quinn… or stupid enough not to connect the dots with Quinn and the pregnancy. And I also don't think that the REAL Rachel Berry would be cruel enough to tell Finn. Please **read** and **review**. :)

* * *

><p>Chapter 4: All Hell Breaks Loose<p>

* * *

><p>Time passes quickly as you first enter Glee Club.<p>

Getting in had been easy enough. Who can say no when the three most popular girls in school decide to join? Especially when said cheerleaders can actually sing and dance the part?

The first lesson, swiftly learn that Rachel Berry is far more talented than you ever gave her credit for. And far bossier than you ever thought was possible.

But you can see that every push that Rachel gives, and every annoying shove is meant for the best of the group. The vocal warm-ups do help you to increase your range, and the dance routines that Rachel puts together are simple, yet stylish enough for everyone to get and to win points.

But there's something else that you notice about Rachel Berry. And it nearly scares you to death.

Rachel Berry is clever… and an amazing actress.

You see the sly looks that she shoots over at Kurt and Mercedes whenever she claims a solo. And you also observe the burst of inspiration and improvement that occurs after said acquisition of solo.

The bouts of shrill yelling that Rachel goes into ritually at the start of a lesson induce a 'oh god, we better get this done as quick AND as well as we can' attitude throughout the room. And one day, after you all go through a particularly trying run, you can see a smirk play on the diva's shadowed face as she observes the progress.

And it makes you wonder: is the Rachel Berry that everyone sees and hates… Is she just a moniker? A personality that the _real_ Rachel pulls out of her bag to motivate? To goad improvement?

You catch another bit of this frightening acting when she leaves New Directions, claiming Mr. Schue's lack of direction as her reasoning for leaving. A couple days later, April Rhodes shows up, effectively cutting off all signs of unity within the club.

But it is Rachel who unites everything again, with her swift thinking and self-confidence.

One day, as you dress in the morning, you can feel a hardness in your stomach. A solid growth beneath your muscle. The baby's growth frightens you, because it's a sign that you no longer have control over your body like you used to.

The morning sickness is terrible to handle. You've had to learn how to hold it down during Cheerios, though it leaves you feeling even more nauseated than before. You go day to day without eating much.

During Glee practice, you find yourself having to run outside on more than one account. Finn lamely claims that it's 'food-poisoning' or 'flu' on several occasions. And you're sure that you don't miss the mysterious, knowing glint in Rachel's eyes as you run in the middle of choreography.

You feel angry on more than one occasion, and you take it out on Finn, who is steadily becoming the source of most of your grief.

You see the way he looks at Rachel with the loving, adoring eyes that used to grace yours once upon a time. You see the way that he looks at her when she's standing at the front of the room, like she's the only person there.

You know that he loves her.

But you can't let him go. He's the only thing that's left from your old life. He's your last chance to cushion the fall to the bottom that will inevitably occur when you're outed as a slutty, pregnant teen.

Still, when he stares at Rachel so hungrily, you want to kill him. To scream "I kissed her first!" when he thinks about pressing his lips to Rachel's.

Those feelings frighten you. They make you squirm in discomfort even thought you no longer believe in any sort of higher power.

So you chalk it up to jealousy. A very potent case of jealousy.

Jealousy that flares up one day as you watch Finn stare at Rachel's ass from across the hallway when the little diva bends over to collect the books a bunch of ape-ish jocks knock them from her hands.

You smack his arm as he begins to mutter 'mail-man' continuously under his breath, prompting the giant oaf to look after at you with something akin to confusion on his face.

"Q-Quinn, what's wrong?" you want to smack the stupidity off his face.

"You know," you slam his locker shut, picking up your Cheerios bag, "I get that guys feel the need to cheat on their **pregnant** girlfriends…"

"B-but Quinn-."

"Shut up, Finn," you snap, before looking up at him with malice in your eyes. "Don't pretend that you weren't looking at her… Just… you can cheat with anyone."

You set off in a brisk walk, leaving your boyfriend behind with a last grouping of words.

"Just don't cheat on me with _**her**_."

* * *

><p>"Quinn!"<p>

A strong sense of dread pervades your senses as the deep, husky voice of Noah Puckerman echoes down the hall.

You know what's going to happen now. It's been a long time in coming. Puck and Finn are best friends, and Finn never could keep his mouth shut. Especially with how self-centered he is.

Your boyfriend is as dumb as a doornail unless it has something to do with **his** own interests or life. Even then, he still isn't the brightest bulb on the shelf.

Holding your books tighter to your chest, you ignore him (you can hear the lunkhead pushing people aside to try to reach you, the clunk of his heavy combat boots hot in pursuit), walking a little faster to try to gain some distance.

"Quinn, come on, we need to talk!"

You're just about to round the corner when you feel his hand heavy on your shoulder. The touch sends a chill down your spine, causing you to throw his the ungainly limb from your shoulder as you glare at him with as much malice as you can muster.

"Don't you **ever**," you jab a finger into his chest, "touch me **again**, you egotistical son of a bitch!"

"Well I wouldn't have to grab you," Puck leans against the wall, effectively trapping you in, "if you would just let me talk to you!"

He pauses for a moment, and a cruel, smug smirk splits across his thin lips. "And you weren't complaining about me touching you the night we fuc-."

"The night you took advantage of me?" you hiss.

"The night I knocked you up," he counters, folding his muscular arms.

"Shut up!" your eyes wander around the hall for any sign of eavesdropping persons. Dimly, in the corner of your mind, you note '_just in case __**Rachel**__ hears.'_ Again, you mentally chastise yourself for the inappropriate thoughts before you turn a glare full of complete loathing and disgust upon the man whore.

"Seriously, Finn may be stupid enough to believe that you were impregnated via hot tub," Puck rolls his eyes, "but we **both** know that there isn't a way 'quick-shot' Hudson did the deed."

"If you're looking for me to validate your ability to prey on the insecurities of others," you lean against the wall, "then let me say this. I will go to the **grave** saying that Finn is the Father. Because my baby will **not** have a father who would get a girl drunk and then sleep with her without protection."

"Quinn, I was just as stoned as you were!" Puck slams his fist against the wall, eyes flashing dangerously. "So forgive me if I didn't have a **damn** condom."

"You must clearly think **I'm** stupid if I don't know that your alcohol tolerance level isn't amazingly high," malice fills every drip of your voice. "Your mind was functioning as clearly as if you were sober, you asshole. If I know you, you just wanted to feel good, so you thought you could get away without using a condom on a girl who wouldn't be aware of it either way."

"It takes two to tango, baby."

"It takes one man whore with a spiked wine cooler and little consideration for women to tango as well," you spit. You hold up a finger as he tries to interject. "Get to the point of this conversation, Puckerman. I have little patience for you anymore."

"I want to be there for that baby," Puck states bluntly. "It's my kid, I'm responsible for it, and I should be given the chance to not be a deadbeat Dad. I want to take care of you… and I want to be a family."

At these words, anger pulses hotly through your veins. How **dare** he? How could he even say such a thing? He should be **given a chance** when he's to blame for **everything** that's happened? It's his fault that you have to lie to Finn. It's his fault that your hormones are making you incredibly moody and gay for Rachel Berry.

And it's his fault that your life is all but ruined!

"You want to be a family?" you laugh bitterly. "What makes you think that you have the **right** to even say that? You **raped** me, and you have the right to claim part of this baby's life?"

"I'll **die** before I let you lay a single **finger** on this baby's head."

"Quinn-."

"Leave me alone, Puckerman. Shut the hell up, leave me alone, and move on with your life. Lord knows you undoubtedly have more women to screw."

With that shove him out of the way, turning on your heel, head down, as you flee the scene.

Tears begin to leak from down your cheeks in silent trails as you walk. Walk to where, you have no idea. Some place where you can be alone. Some place your feet are unconsciously carrying you.

Your heart beats frantically, sadness and fear claims every inch of your body. You could care less about the fact that the teens in the hall are probably gossiping about what's wrong with you. You could care less that it looks like you've lost your toughness factor.

Right now, you just need to escape.

But your escape is thwarted when you walk right into someone you don't even bother to look up at, sending you stumbling forward toward the ground.

Two warm hands capture your shoulders in a gentle press, holding you aloft as a mixture of spicy scents assault your nostrils.

The rich assortment of aromas sends a quiver down your trembling form. It's the same pleasant, unnerving chill that you always get around _her_.

"Quinn, for a Cheerio," the melodious voice hits your ears, heightening your tremors, "it seems you fall a fair amount lately…"

Your tear-stained eyes rise to meet rich, earthy brown with underlying tones of the deepest red you've ever seen. Concern flashes through those same orbs as your Savior tentatively wipes away the onslaught of water falling in free streams from your eyes.

"Quinn, what's wrong?" her voice falls to a faint whisper, the hand on your cheek falling gently to your shoulder.

"N-none of your business, Man Hands," you manage to get out amidst the wave of tears assaulting you as you halfheartedly try to pull away from her. The last thing you need to do right now is deal with these sucky emotions. Right now you need to find a bathroom and pull yourself together.

But Rachel Berry doesn't seem to want to afford you that chance. Instead, she grabs you by the arm, snorting softly.

"Yes, Quinn… my tiny, delicate hands are **so** manly," she mutters. "But right now, you **do** need my help, so come on."

At this point, you feel so defeated that you allow her to haul you off down the hall without a single protest.

The hand that has you caught by the wrist **is** as small and delicate as Rachel noted. It's so small that it only lightly curls around your wrist, each individual finger tipped by short, well-manicured fingernails. Each digit is slender, unlike the thick, pudgy fingers of your boyfriend and by extension, Puck.

Rachel drags you into the choir room (you instantly recognize it by the smell of ink and old music), placing you down on one of the cheap plastic chairs that you use for Glee club as she drags another to sit across from you.

The petite singer places her messenger bag next to her leg (the latter of which is **extremely** long for a short person, you note without much thought, only to shake your head to clear the sinful observation from your mind), before leaning forward, looking to you silently.

"I know that I'm not exactly the **best **person to talk to," Rachel gestures with her hands, "but I'm good at listening. You won't have to worry about any of your precious secrets being spilt."

"And how do I know you won't tell, Man Hands?" you spit out harshly. "You **hate** me. All you need is one secret to ruin me."

Rachel sighs before leaning down to rummage around in the bag. She produces a little plastic container of Kleenex, pulling out a swatch before looking at you with an eyebrow raised. "May I?"

You nod, shaking slightly as the small girl's hand goes to wipe around your eyes (you can only imagine what a mess your mascara is right now). This touch doesn't make you flare up with some sort of dirty emotion, it makes you feel at ease. It's gentle and soft against your cheek.

"Quinn," she begins, wiping at some tear tracks, "it's true that you and I aren't exactly on friendly terms… and I probably **should** hate you."

You flinch slightly.

"But hatred is for petty individuals who waste their time and energy on things that you can't change," Rachel's tongue sticks adorably from her mouth as she scrubs particularly hard on one place. "Hate doesn't solve anything. I'd rather focus my energy on something much more worthy, like my singing or procuring good grades."

With a satisfied grin, Rachel drops her hand from your face, shoving the used tissue into the pocket of her jeans (you almost do a double take, because other than the MySpace video, you've never seen her wear them before). Her eyes soften and a small, sad smile graces her full lips. "I **do** know what it's like not to have someone to talk to. I know that it feels like you want to tear yourself into little pieces to escape from going made. That you just want to scream, shout, and cry for someone to listen."

"Quinn," a small hand finds yours, holding it in its callused (what could Rachel Berry possibly do to have such callused hands?) grasp as brown eyes bury themselves in your own, "I might not be able to **understand** your problem… I might not be able to take away the pain or confusion that you're feeling… But I **can** listen."

The gates you'd built up around your secret burst at the seams when you see the knowing look in Rachel's eyes. Tears well up again, but the sobs don't come. They simply fall silently into the red fabric of your Cheerio's skirt and clog your throat.

The hand grasping your own tightens comfortably as Rachel kneels before you, whispering softly, her right hand gently wiping the tears away.

Her voice is rich and soft against your ears, sending waves of lazy comfort into the bleeding wounds of your heart. It makes you feel warm… as warm as the flannel sheets your mother used to swaddle you in when you were a little girl.

The lump in your throat clears after a bit of time. But you can't bring yourself to look at Rachel. At this kind, sincere person that elicits so many conflicting, confusing emotions. You can't **bear** to think of what sort of disappointment she'll look at you with once you tell her your secret.

But you have to tell her. Because you've cried too much. You've felt too many things.

You take a shaky breath, licking your dry lips and poising yourself to speak.

"R-Rachel…?" you have to start it this way. You need to know for now, before she knows, if she can even **begin** to guess at what is happening.

"Yes?" the question is instantaneous. It warms you a bit, because Rachel must genuinely care to react so quickly. It's a comfort to finally be around someone who actually… **wants** to be around you. **Wants** to be there for you.

"…Do you know _anything_?"

There's a faint pause in Rachel's soft ministrations to your cheek, a loss in pressure in your hand. And suddenly, you know that she knows **something**. Rachel Berry, after all, isn't stupid like Finn or Puck.

"Quinn… you haven't been sick since the fifth grade," Rachel pauses again, before hesitantly continuing, "and… Noah never paid any attention to you before because you're one of the only girls who won't put out."

Your heart nearly stops. It's been that obvious? No, Rachel's just smarter than the rest. No one could put together the two unless they'd had more smarts than the rest of the student population. You'd been careful. **So** careful.

You open your mouth once more, to finally let everything go.

"I'm pregnant."

But this time, Rachel doesn't halt in her ministrations, instead a steady hand goes to your chin and lifts it up.

"Look at me, Quinn," Rachel says softly.

And you do, seeing those beautiful eyes glisten in the fluorescents, while Rachel gives you a tender grin.

"It'll be okay," she whispers, clasping both of your hands between her own, with such certainty wrought across her face. "I promise that **everything** is going to be okay."

This time, you fall to your knees and bury yourself in Rachel's arms, sobbing freely into the shoulder of her white shirt, grasping at the front of her freshly pressed black vest.

All Rachel does is hold you tighter, pressing you closer and whispering those words continuously, rubbing your back.

And you feel the weight of the last few weeks rise from your shoulders.

Because when Rachel Berry promises something, she always keeps the promise.

* * *

><p>The next morning, all hell breaks loose.<p>

People look at you with something akin to disgust as you walk down the halls, printouts of Jacob Ben Israel's Article '_Head Cheerio Topped by Quarterback_' crushed in their hands.

You hear the jocks shout 'preggo' and 'tubbers' across the hallway as you pass.

Honestly, you just want to crawl into yourself and die.

But you make it as far as your locker before you burst into tears, Rachel looking at you with some semblance of sorrow.

And just as the little diva reaches out for you, Finn is crushing you to his awkward, stony frame and mumbling 'it'll be okay' in his low voice.

Rachel just looks at you apologetically mouthing '_I still promise_' before turning down the hall and walking toward her classroom.

Later on, the Glee Club sings '_Keep Holding On'_ in rehearsal, each of them standing as a firm wall of protection about you.

Rachel looks at you as she sings, taking your hand and pairing with you in the choreography. She lifts and dips you with surprising strength, never letting go.

And when the final echoes of sound fade from existence…

Rachel's still holding your hand.

And you think that everything might just be alright.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thank you for reading :) The next chapter is already in the works. I think this'll end up being longer than I intended… Please **review** as it does help me to write :)


	5. Siren With The Scar

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of its characters, nor do I own Megan Slankard's music!

**A/N:** Here's the next chapter (My goodness they keep getting longer and longer! This is where I REALLY do deviate from Glee's season 1 storyline. This is where it becomes an AU work. Because this is a different Rachel we're dealing with. She's crafty, sneaky, and she's multi-faceted. Thank you to **Cassicio, Stessa, sarfatibieber, kingcyrus, diamondplatypus, carouselhorse, sugarspiceandnotsonice, TheMuggleInDumbledoresArmy**, and **Kino karutta-chan** for their excellent support. Without you, I don't think I could have been able to update as quickly :) You gave me tons of inspiration. Here's the next chapter as a thank you. Please **read** and **review**. It helps to know that people are enjoying the story, or that they have some advice for me to follow!

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><p>Chapter 5: Siren With the Scar<p>

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><p>Sue kicks you off the Cheerios.<p>

It's something that's been a long time in coming, and you've mentally prepared yourself for it, so it's not as bad as you thought it was going to be. But still, there's something about handing the uniform over that makes you terribly sad.

It feels strange, walking down the halls in your own clothes (which are much more modest than the thigh exposing, pleated skirts that the Cheerios traipse around in), people pushing and shoving past you instead of scrambling to get out of your way.

It reminds you of those years when you were… uglier than everyone else. Those days spent with those terrible cokebottle framed glasses, acne, and overweight issues.

The Glee Club hadn't been quick on the uptake to aid you, despite their performance of _Keep Holding On_ the week prior to your Cheerios eviction. If anything, they acted as though you really **were** a social pariah. Kurt Hummel and Mercedes Jones busily gossiped away, stealing glances down at your still flat stomach. Puck sat sullenly away from you, not bothering to glance at you. Santana and Brittany hurled unflattering insults while your stupid, dumb as a brick boyfriend just sat there staring at Rachel.

Rachel, on the other hand, was proactively kind to you. The morning following her promise in the choir room, she would smile at you kindly, greet you, then go on her way to class. During Glee Club, she sat as close as she could without giving away any sort of unflattering connection (she probably, you think to yourself, wanted you to keep your popularity about you). But other than making a special effort to recognize you, she's the same old confusing Rachel Berry.

A period which comes to an end very quickly.

The first day, Dave Karofsky comes stomping down the hall after you, Azimio at his side, both with Big Gulp cups in their hands and smug smirks wrought all over their gorilla-ish features.

You're digging at your locker, wearing a loose fitting light blue baby doll dress, some sandals, and a matching headband. A couple lockers down, Rachel, who had been doing the same thing, looks up from the interior of the locker, eyes darkening considerably.

"Fabray!" their barks echo down the hallway and draw the attention of the entire student body.

You turn and find them grinning at you, slushies held up to your face as you feel a horrid shiver run down your back.

"We just wanted to make sure that these slushies are acceptable," Karofsky thrusts his closer to your face as you gulp, trying to hide your fear behind a mask of indifference, "to baptize you into loserdom."

"Do they meet your standards, your Royal Highness?" Azimio bows mockingly, and you just really want to sock him one. But that wouldn't be the smart thing to do… Especially considering the fact that he's probably a hundred pounds heavier than you and that he's so much of an idiot, there's no telling how low he's willing to sink to harm you.

Your hand instinctively goes to your stomach. '_How low he's willing to go to harm… a baby.'_

"Anything that you touch will **never** be worthy of me," you spit, pushing the cup away, "because when I'm off and successful, you'll be here working at Breadstix."

Your eyes dart across the hall to Finn, who is simply standing there with a weird, constipated look on his stupid face. He's digging his fingers into the metal of his locker, not making a single sound. Not making any move to help you.

Inside, you feel betrayed.

Some father **he's** going to make.

"Shut up, Fabray!" Karofsky snarls, throwing you against the locker, making your textbooks fall from your arms with the impact.

It stings, sure, but you close your eyes and brace yourself as you see the slushy cup come back, the liquid begin to make its journey to the mouth of the cup…

And then there's a loud thumping sound, a deep yell, and the gasps of all the onlookers in the hall.

There's no coldness. No stickiness… Nothing.

You open your eyes, and what you see makes your heart pound furiously as a hand goes to cover your mouth in shock.

Dave Karofsky and Azimio Adams, the schools toughest footballers, covered head to toe in cherry ice dripping off their sorry, trembling figures cowering in front of Rachel Berry.

Little Rachel Berry, the glee clubber, dressed in a black skirt and argyle sweater, grasping both boys' hands and upturning the mega sized Big Quenches on their stupid heads. Rachel Berry, who usually looked so bubbly and happy, standing with a murderous frown on her face and thundering brown eyes filled to the brim with malice.

The diva grasps the two cups in her hands, dashing them to the ground and dusting off her hands daintily, as if she _hadn't_ just slushied the two biggest men on campus. She places her hands on her hips and glares at the two boys, a glare that rivals yours on your worst days.

"You two 'big men,'" Rachel's voice is deep, eyes flashing dangerously as she air quotes the words, "can slushy me. You can slushy any of the losers in this school. But you crossed the line when you try to slushy a **pregnant woman**."

The singer takes a step forward toward the two boys, who almost wince with each advance.

"Imagine if Quinn were to get sick from the coldness of the ice," Rachel leans against a locker, looking frighteningly calm as she regards as she regards her nails, "and the baby were to die… or if she were to take a nasty fall…"

The girl looks up, and there, again, is another side of Rachel you have yet to see. She smiles sweetly, but you can see the murderous intent hidden in those eyes. **Anyone** can see it. It's the sort of look that you used to throw around not too long ago. It's a look that sends people flinching and trembling at the seams.

And it appears it has the same effect, because Karofsky and Azimio look like they're about to piss their pants.

"So if I see you two try to slushy Quinn Fabray again," the little diva cracks her knuckles, the terrifyingly sweet smile still etched on her lips, "I'm afraid that you might just have… an **accident** that will make Puckerman's portapotty dumps look like heaven… understand?"

The two boys don't give any indication of hearing, as their eyes are so fixed on the out of character level of bloodlust emitting in dangerous waves from _Rachel Berry_ of all people.

The smile snaps from Rachel's face, and in several strong strides, her hands are pulling the two jocks down to her petite height, and she's glaring at them head on with dead brown eyes.

"I said… do we _**understand**_, boys?"

The idiots shake their heads so quickly, it almost seems like they have whiplash. As soon as Rachel releases her hold on their letterman jackets, they take off down the hall in a flurry of cherry scented air.

Rachel stands there for a few moments, taking the small, familiar Kleenex pouch out of a pocket in her skirt, wiping the corn syrup from her fingers. Your eyes are drawn instantly to several jagged, silvery scars running along the callused surfaces.

You don't have long to ponder their origin, because Rachel turns sharply to your boyfriend, eyes still lost in their same furious glint.

The little diva jabs a finger into Finn's stomach (you note that Finn's eyes widen to an almost cartoonish level as he stares down at the tiny girl), looking up at him with a disappointed frown etched across her lips.

"_**You**_," her voice thunders across the silent hall, "need to stop being such a goddamn coward and act like a damn **man**. If someone hurts Quinn, **you're** going to lose your **child**."

She prods the man-child one last time for good measure. "She's _your_ goddamn girlfriend, so treat her that way!"

With that, the little diva pivots on her heel and executes a perfect diva storm-out, leaving flurries of confused onlookers behind in the process.

And you?

You've never felt such a cocktail of confusion, relief, gratefulness, and anger in your entire life.

And now you're pretty sure you have a name to put to that strange emotion that you get in your stomach every time you see a little bit of Rachel Berry's real personality bleed through the cracks

It's lust.

And out of the corner of your eye…

You're sure you see Puck staring greedily at Rachel's ass with something akin to that.

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><p>As you predicted, Puck seems to have a thing for Rachel. Several times during the week, you see him trailing after the diva class to class, yelling after her with a nasty grin on his face. The same nasty grin he wore the night he knocked you up. It's the grin he wears whenever he wants to <strong>do<strong> something indecent to a girl.

You sigh to yourself, brushing several gold curls behind your ear and holding your books tighter to your chest. It seems like **everyone** wanted Rachel Berry, popular kids not excluded

'_Then again,_' you think to yourself as you walk down the hall to your next class, '_who __**wouldn't**__ after what Rach did in the hall the other day.'_

You stop in your tracks, blanching at your thoughts, glaring down at your still flat stomach with loathing. '_My God… this baby __**has**__ to be his. It's making me just as much of a pervert as him.'_

Because only Puck's kid would make you remotely attracted to a girl, much less Rachel Berry.

You shake your head, trying to clear your mind before you hear the loud, violent slam of a locker a few feet away.

Through the crowd, you see Rachel glaring Puck down, arms crossed with a no-nonsense frown painting its way across her pretty (oh, it **definitely** has to be the baby's Puckerman Perv genes) features. Puck, on the other hand, is still wearing that smug, shit-eating grin that makes you want to crack him in the face (it's strange how much your violent tendencies have grown in the past month or so).

Rachel gesticulates madly with her hands, frustration etched across every single little crack on her face while Puck just simply stares unashamedly at her chest as the diva rants on and on.

You stealthily move across the hall, opening your locker, pretending to dig through it, keeping your ears open.

"Come on baby, I'm a hot Jew, you're a hot Jew," you can hear him lean against the lockers. "Together, well… you and I would be the **hottest** thing here at McKinley. Especially with our mutual badassness."

"I'm not interested in dating you, Noah."

"It's Puck."

"Whatever your alias is… I'm still not interested in dating you."

"Oh, come on baby," a few more slides vibrate, and you know he's leaning closer, "I'm great at making out… And look at these guns, you can have them at the nice low price of a grope on those wonderful jewels adorning your chest."

You grit your teeth, gnashing them as your familiar friend, anger, starts his journey through your veins. Honestly, you just want to go over there and tell Puck to **shut up** for once in his damn life. You try to calm yourself, listening for Rachel's reply.

"As tantalizing as that sounds," the diva's locker slams. "I'm still going to have to say no. You have no stage talent, you sleep around, and quite honestly, you're just not up to Rachel Berry standard, Noah."

"What?" Puck sounds devastated, and it makes you cackle with glee on the inside. "Have you **seen** my guns?"

"What can I say other than all brawn and no brains… or in this case, talent."

You stifle your laughter, shutting your locker, but as you're about to turn, a tanned hand rests in your way, and you see amused brown eyes observing you.

"Quinn," a sly smile runs across Rachel's lips. "In the future… if you're going to eavesdrop, try continuing on with the actions of looking through your locker."

The grin grows much larger as she stands up straight, fixing out the plaid material of her skirt and adjusting the messenger bag on her shoulder. "Nice try though."

After Rachel disappears, you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding in, and there's a noticeable lift from the heaviness that you feel in the school's atmosphere.

'_My God,_' you mutter internally, '_Rachel Berry is going to be the death of me.'_

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><p>Puck joins Glee club the next day, <strong>trying<strong> and **failing** to win Rachel over with a rousing serenade of _Sweet Caroline_.

Finn looks like a gassy little infant (again a Santana term) when Puck asks Rachel out, smiling pleadingly at her, guitar still strapped to his chest. It would've made you laugh had you not been as equally peeved as your boyfriend.

But Rachel just shakes her head, grins and says 'nice try, Noah' before totally disregarding the bad boy to listen to Schue's latest rant.

A rant which turns into an almost-diva off when Schue tries to assign Rachel _Defying Gravity_ as a solo, prompting a response from Kurt, and a surprising reply from Rachel.

"I don't see why it has to be a solo," Rachel said, shrugging her shoulders whilst looking at Kurt with a half-smile on her lips. "Kurt has a nice, Broadway style voice like mine. It's perfectly suited to accompany mine in a rousing duet rendition of the song. It'd certainly fulfill a requirement at Sectionals, wouldn't it?"

The whole of the room simply stared at the diva as though there was some undiscovered creature sitting in her place. Kurt, by far, looked more surprised than any at his place at the front of the room, mouth agape and eyes bulging from their sockets.

Rachel, as though unaware of the current state of shock in the room, continued. "Unless there's a problem with that… Kurt?"

"Uh… N-no," he squeaked. "Th-that'd be… great."

"Good," Rachel beamed, clapping her hands excitedly. "Which leads me to believe that for solos…"

The diva's next little tangent sparked a competition for solos during sectionals. While it looked as though Schue was just about ready to **give** Rachel some sort of a feature, the singer insisted that there be fair auditions for everyone in the group.

"That way," she'd smirked, "I know that I've **earned** my much deserved solo."

Unfortunately, you have little experience with music, other than your meager set of piano skills.

You remember that during lessons, your father used to take you to _Jack's_ down at the mall to buy you sheet music. So, you think to yourself, they **have** to have some sort of sheet music that you can use for your audition (because Schue insisted that you **all** submit something, otherwise you never would have sung).

As you pull of your dress to change into a pair of jeans and a blouse, you note the fact that you can see the slight beginnings of a baby bump well on the way.

You run your fingers over the curve, seeing the fading lines of your hard-won abs begin to melt away as you close your eyes and pretend as though it's months ago. You pretend it's the night of Puck's stupid party, and you remember what it's like **not** to be pregnant.

But of course, thinking of the party makes you think of Rachel Berry, with her wavy brown locks and those laughing eyes staring up at you as she drunkenly slurs out nonsense. You think of how she tasted of mint and a slight hint of berries.

And you see those eyes looking mournfully at Dallas, crouched down on the stage… you see those melancholy, knowing orbs looking out from your laptop singing something about loss and loneliness and overcoming obstacles.

You just see… _Rachel_, holding you, promising you that everything would be okay.

Thoughts of the confusing girl and her many faces continue to flash through your head as you drive to the mall, listening to the copy of _All That's Known_ you burned to your iPod the morning after you heard Rachel sing it.

It's the Original Broadway Cast version, and you feel that Rachel's version is much better than the male voice that pours smoothly from the speakers in the car. But the song itself makes you feel warm and safe.

You park the car just outside the mall entrance, tossing the keys into your purse and starting at a steady jog.

_Jack's_ is a mess of sheet music, lying around on all sides of the room in little, orderly bins on one side of the room while guitars are mounted on every available surface along with the occasional brass or woodwind instrument. The walls are painted warm beige that gives the little space a comfy feel. Fluorescents cast a lively glow across the shop.

You greet old Jack, a sixty year old, muscular, gray-eyed old man sitting behind a counter, polishing the mahogany surface of his beloved Cello. He lifts his head, smiling in recognition, waving a greasy hand before turning back to his instrument.

You immediately make your way over to the 'oldies but goodies' vocal music section, humming _Somebody to Love_ beneath your breath while thumbing through each folder.

You're halfway through the 'James Brown' music when you hear the faint strumming of a guitar floating through the shop. There's the call of a voice, heartbroken, singing in tandem with the instrument's lonely chords.

"_Addy got a tattoo… she bought it with another month of working weekends and it fits her like a glove."_

The music's coming from one of the practice rooms, stifled through the wood of the door.

You hold the book of music beneath your arm, softly creeping over to the door, peering curiously into the small slat of glass fitted into the pane.

Sitting on a stool within the room, a woman clad in a white tanktop and a pair of jean shorts strums on a beautifully crafted guitar.

The woman is seated facing away from the door. Ringlets of chocolate brown hair cascade down onto muscular shoulders, tanned skin showing a light honey in the warm lighting within.

"_Dude she even loved you while the hammer fell! Mark'd you where the bolt of Cupid dwells? 'Twas in a print it made upon her skin. She still blushes thinking it is sin. Yeah… Yeahh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."_

The voice is smoky against your ears, sending shivers down your skin as you continue to listen to the melancholy story that the song tells through its impressionable lyrics. It's a mature, adult voice, the likes of which you've never heard before.

As the woman shifts positions, curling into her guitar, brunette locks flow to the right, and you find yourself gasping at what it exposes.

A grouping of ropy, silvery scars mar the muscled shoulder belonging to this prolific singer.

They're narrow, made with such clean precision that you're almost certain they were made by some sort of knife. They cross and mesh into a single, knotted, circular piece of rough tissue. A stab wound, you realize.

Those scars, you think, must have been made by a nasty injury. Someone had hurt this singer, and it had probably been a horrific, live threatening injury. The scars were too severe for it to have been anything less.

"_He loves me, he loves me not. The paper says it's over but he forgot… the tattoo. He loves me, he loves me not. She pulls the petals off and watch them drop. And he forgot… the tattoo."_

You've never heard anyone sing so emotionally before, other than Rachel. But this woman seems to be living this song. Throwing herself into the music. Each lyric strain makes you want to burst into tears. The longing is so apparent. So tangible. You can almost swear that **you're** the one enduring the heartbreak.

You shake yourself from your reverie, straightening up, taking one last glance at the singer, before walking to the register, setting down the music, and getting out your wallet to pay.

Jack looks up at you, smiling slightly as he takes in your contemplative expression, grabbing your money off the counter.

"She's a special one, that one, eh?" he sorts through the register, pulling out the change.

"Her voice is **beautiful**," you say, smiling wistfully when the last waves of music echo through the shop. The next song starts up, equally as heart rending as the last.

"Well, that's what you get when you start 'em early," Jack chuckles, handing you the money and receipt.

"…What's her name?" you ask as you're about to leave the shop. Somehow, inside, you think you know who it is, but you just need to confirm. Because everything always comes back to one person. Everything in your life **always** seems to.

"Her?" Jack pauses for a moment. "I don't know, I never caught her name before she went in to practice. Only thing she told me was that she'd been playing for a few years."

You sigh. Well... dead end. And you certainly weren't going to just **sit** here and wait just to find out who the woman behind the guitar is. You'd creep her out. No one is that forward with a stranger

"Thanks, Jack."

"Anytime, Ms. Fabray."

That night, you stare at the ceiling, thinking.

Thinking about everything that'd happened this week. From the almost-slushy facial, to Rachel Berry, to the reveal of your secret, to your fall from the Cheerios, right down to how it felt to walk through the school without the uniform on.

The guitar woman, with her strange, silvery scar, is the last thing that enters your mind before you sleep. Her voice plays at the edges of your memory, a haunting, echoing presence.

You don't know who she is... but you feel like, maybe... just maybe...

Maybe she'll be someone important.

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><p><strong>AN:** And end! The next chapter's being written The song is **Addy's Tattoo** by Megan Slankard. Please take the time to **review** :) Thank you.


	6. Coming Undone

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee, or any of these characters, nor do I own Billy Joel's music :)

**A/N: **This chapter is the longest one I've written so far! I got so carried away with the characters, etc. that I just had to go the extra mile and write more. thank you to **kingcyrus, jupiter01, sugarspiceandnotsonice, Kino karutta-chan, TheMuggleInDumbledoresArmy, Cassicio, m-cooper, Stessa, w1cked, **and** shawn-n-belle **for their wonderful reviews that encouraged the writing of this chapter :) Please **review, **as I always love hearing from my amazing readers.

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><p>Chapter 6: Coming Undone<p>

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><p>Finn is a good man. He's the <strong>best<strong> possible choice to shoulder the heavy burden of being a father.

He's sweet, albeit somewhat dopey, but he's a good kid at heart. He always has to see something through to the best possible degree.

He's **ready** to be a father.

That's what you tell yourself everyday when Finn holds you close, when he kisses you, and when he worships your stomach with a barrage of kisses instead of making out like you used to.

But there are some times (many, many more as of late) when you see Finn break down. You see the tears drip down his face in the locker rooms when you go to pick him up (you give him time to collect himself before you come in), you see how nervously he looks at every bill you stiffly place into his palm.

And you can see how frightened he is when he looks at the small, almost visible bump where smooth, attractive muscle once stretched taut.

You can also see the way he looks at Rachel Berry.

Whenever the little diva gets up to sing a solo or a duet, Finn's eyes instantly glaze over with desire. You can see the way his eyes linger over every curve of her body. How he soaks in every single little thing she says, laughs when she laughs, is happy when **she** is happy.

It's the same way he used to look at you before Puck messed up your entire life.

But somehow, the affection and depth of what Finn feels for Rachel is much more genuine than the lustful, almost plastic interactions that occur in your relationship.

He listens to her, he's captivated by every little word that emits from the diva's ever moving mouth. He goes out of his way to do little things like open the door, or unstuck chairs for Rachel when she gets into Glee…

He's everything that **you** wanted him to be.

He loves Rachel. Truly, genuinely loves her.

And it kills you inside.

At first, you chalk it up to the fact that you're jealous of Rachel Berry for snagging him, hook, line, and sinker. That Finn's stringing you along and keeping you when he's clearly devoted to someone else. That Rachel possesses and elicits everything in Finn that you wish you had in him.

That explained these strange, rolling emotions in your stomach. That's the reason why you've had all these poisonous reactions whenever Finn and Rachel interact (never mind the fact that when Puck tried to hit on Rachel, you had the strongest urge to castrate him).

You're not gay, just jealous.

Of Rachel, of course. Not _**Finn**_.

In an effort to validate your feelings, you take Finn home one day, throw him against the wall, and push your lips against his.

Finn responds back eagerly, pushing out a thick, meaty tongue to slobber distastefully across your lips, forcing your mouth open and nearly choking you with the appendage.

His face is too angular, and he hasn't shaved, so his stubble scratches against your face roughly. His lips are terribly chapped, and chafe against your own as he eagerly moves his head with the motions of his tongue.

Adrenaline pounds through your veins as Finn's large frame transforms into one shorter in stature, and muscular around the arms. Giant, groping hands turn to sly, lecherous hands as light browns meld into dark, tainted orbs.

A scream bubbles in your throat as you shove Puck's phantom off you, yelling for Finn to get out, despite the loud protests that fall in rivers from the giant's mouth. He reaches for your trembling figure several times, but you push him away and out the door. Fastening the lock in place you slump against the white-painted wood, shoulders heaving with sobs.

You grit your teeth, pulling blonde tresses between your fingers as you sob in frustration.

"This isn't fair!" you cry out, leaning against the door. "What did I do to deserve losing my self-worth?"

You look angrily up at the ceiling of your room as though something above is looking down upon you… Something that you **used** to think was there, always, eternally looking out for you.

"What did I **do** to make You hate me?" you scream. "I went to bible school! I stayed celibate! I prayed **everyday** at EVERY meal and whenever I needed You!"

There's no answer, just the silence of the room, and the sound of your own sobs contrasting against it. You bury your face in your hands.

"…You don't even **exist**."

You take a few moments to calm yourself, draw the pain back behind the walls. You get off the floor, look at yourself in your vanity, wiping the tears from your eyes and redoing your makeup to hide the redness.

After all, you're still playing Daddy's little girl.

You don't want him to see you crying for absolutely no reason.

You turn to your laptop, clicking Firefox on and scrolling to your bookmarks, pulling up _All That's Known_, sitting down and closing your eyes.

Rachel's voice makes you drift off to sleep, slowly but surely.

It never fails to.

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><p>After school one day, you're walking towards your car, keys in hand, when you hear two voices clashing against each other across the empty school hallways.<p>

There's a woman's voice, one that you recognize almost instantly, because you've become an expert at knowing the intricacies of that dulcet sound.

It's Rachel. You know because no other voice can make your ears hum with a sacred sort of resonance.

Everyone else's voice seems… **plain** in comparison to hers. Santana's smoky rocker voice… Finn's gravelly, almost boy band sounding calls… None of them send a fresh series of tremors along the column of your body like Rachel's melodic voice does.

But Rachel's voice isn't as smooth as it normally is today. The diva's usually light and rich voice is laced heavily with distress and utter frustration. It's taken on a darker edge. An almost _threatening_ edge that makes you fear for the person that's speaking with her.

The other voice is decidedly male. It's heavy, and it makes the lockers rumble slightly in its wake (a testament to what a cheap school McKinley High is, because that HAS to mean everything's made out of tissue paper).

But the man's voice is not angry, rather softer and timid beneath the flow of Rachel's rage.

You turn lightly on your heel and observe the open doors of the auditorium. In your head, you instantly get a sense of déjà vu, because this is the place where weeks ago, your mental confusion first came into existence.

Because whenever you see Rachel up on that stage, there's something magical that happens. She transcends the boundaries of the stage. She becomes larger than life and extends a portion of herself to every single member of the audience.

'_That must be what everyone sees in Rachel,'_ you think to yourself as you quietly step towards the slightly ajar door. '_She's a bit of everyone… She makes you feel… special.'_

From your spot on the door, you can make out the dull shine of the singular stage lamp that is ritually kept sitting there on the main floor. It's the only source of light in the dark abyss of a theatre, and it casts morbid shadows along the walls.

On stage, you see Rachel and Finn locked in a fierce argument. Rachel's eyes are alight with something other than that fond spark that she usually reserves for Finn. Instead they seem genuinely angry. And it frightens you.

Apart from the day you'd been slushied, you'd never seen Rachel so angry before.

Finn, just mere paces away from the small brunette, is looking on with that sad, puppy dog look that you see him always wear after you don't let him slip you some tongue (it's the same look that you've seen him regard your slightly swollen stomach with on a daily basis). His big, ape-ish arms are set out in front of him, trying to grasp at the little diva currently keeping him away with a strong arm to his torso.

"I won't be your partner in sin, Finn Hudson," Rachel hisses, "I won't let you reduce me down to some cheap slut!"

"Rach, I **really** like you," Finn says, looking down at her sadly, "and I **know** that you like me. I mean, you're always singing with me-."

"Because Mr. Schue assigns it!"

"You talk to me all nice…" Finn's voice lowers considerably, as if he's saying some dirty secret. "You gave your underwear to Jacob Ben Israel to keep the pregnancy under wraps…"

You're thrown. Rachel Berry gave her **underwear** to Jacob Ben Israel to stop the nasty blog rumor from coming out? And obviously, it had bought you some time, because Finn was apparently aware of it (and Finn is ALWAYS the last person to find out _anything._ But why, why would Rachel Berry do something like that for you?

It's true that you two are on more friendly terms as of late. But… You clench your fists on the fabric of your dress as you grind your teeth.

Finn, of course. It was **all** for Finn. There's no other explanation.

But you watch as Rachel braces herself, and the intense inferno blaring in her eyes increases ever so slightly.

"Because I wanted to help Quinn!" Rachel interjects. Her hands go up to her temples as lids slide close over brown eyes.

"B-but…" Finn's brow crinkles. "I thought you did it to help me. That's what _everyone else_ tells me. Well… that's what Puck said when I asked him."

Rachel's eyes noticeably narrow when Puck's name comes up. You're almost shocked, because the amount of hatred that you see etched across Rachel's features at this very moment is much greater than any amount of anger that **you're** feeling.

You blink. Rachel was emotionally able to **hate** someone?

Then how come she doesn't hate _you_?

Had she been lying that day in the choir room? Was she just taking pity on a poor, pregnant girl?

Questions flood your mind, but you bring yourself back to the present moment to pay attention.

"I don't understand," Rachel mutters, "why a girl **can't** just be friendly to a boy without him thinking that I fancy him. Are you **all** so egotistical as to believe that EVERY little thing revolves around YOU?"

Rachel huffs, gathering up her messenger bag, and turning to go. Mentally, you can feel yourself cheer.

Until Finn, in all his moronic glory, whips Rachel around and kisses her.

Kisses her.

Right in front of you.

And a bunch of anger wells up and shoots through your veins. It's far more potent than anything you've ever felt before. It burns through your veins and makes you tremble with the force of it. In your mind, you're instantly counting up the multiple ways that Finn can die… or indirect ways that you can aid in his impending death.

Because you know what Rachel's lips taste like: that fine blend of mint and softness that flits through your mind as one of the most vivid memories you've ever had.

You covet Rachel's lips, and Finn is violating their sacredness.

You're so enraged at this violation, however, that you don't even notice that your emotions have boiled over the well-placed shields you've worked so hard to put into place. The shields that continuously tell you that you are STILL as perfect as before. That you're not gay and that you don't feel anything for Rachel Berry.

The kiss is over before it's begun, because the sound of skin hitting skin echoes endlessly throughout the auditorium.

The next thing you know, Finn's crouched on the floor like a baby, grasping at a bruising cheek, whimpering pathetically.

Above him, a strong fist extended before her, Rachel hides chocolate eyes behind a curtain of wavy brunette. Her lips are frozen into an emotionless line. The clenched fingers drop and shake at Rachel's side.

"How _dare_ you, Finn Hudson?" Rachel's voice is low, soft, and menacing as she speaks. "How _dare_ you kiss me when you are due to become a Father. When you're still in a relationship with someone else!"

"And how _dare_ you lay your hands on me without my permission!" a wrist goes up to wipe furiously at Rachel's mouth as it forms into a vicious snarl. "Any sort of friendship that you want us to have? Gone. I'm _done_ with you."

The girl turns on her heel and marches out in true diva fashion, leaving the crumbled figure of your boyfriend on the stage, swearing as he tries to master the stinging on his cheek.

Your jaw relaxes, and most of the anger drains out of you.

You won't break up with him, you decide. The two of you are simply using each other. You're secure in each other, not emotionally or physically invested… you're safe. So there's no point in being hypocritical.

Your hazels flash evilly through, as you pull out your cell phone with a slight smirk wrought across your features.

Still, he'll have to pay a bit. Learn his place for kissing another woman.

As you exit the auditorium and walk out to the car, a sick grin plastered to your lips, you hold the phone to your ear.

"Hey," you pause for a moment, tuning out the string of expletives that come showering from your phone. "Calm down, there's something I think you'd be interested in doing."

Pause. "What do you get out of it?"

"_Trust_ me, it's something you'll _**love**_ doing."

"Meet me at Breadstix in 30."

* * *

><p>Santana Lopez is a bitch.<p>

But she's also your best friend.

Ever since Freshman year Cheerios tryouts, the two of you had always tried to outdo each other. It was a constant battle of pushing each other down in **any** way that you two could find out ways to potentially murder each other's reputation.

But with that desire came a mutual respect for each other's abilities. And that developed into an unspoken truce to help each other in any way possible.

Yeah, Santana was happy as **hell** when you fell from the top of the pyramid. Except she was incredibly frustrated about the fact that it'd taken a pregnancy and not some sort of social ruining that she'd brought about herself that finally did you in ('_Dammit, Tubbers, I was well on my way to throwing you off the top before you became a fucking Juno!'_)

But out of all the people in the school besides Rachel, Santana made an effort to keep up with you and make sure that everything in your life had not gone to hell, in her own special Santana patented way: barraging you with insults about every little detail.

Like '_why the hellz are you harfin' all over the place, preggo?' _ was code for '_how's your morning sickness?_' or '_You'z be messin' up my choreography, bitch' _really stood for '_be careful, don't want to hurt you.'_

Because Santana Lopez wouldn't be caught DEAD being nice to the pregnant ex-head Cheerio unless it was on a 'charity matter' (aka, a meeting in which Santana hid her concern through the guise of helping those of loserdom).

And that's why Santana's the one sitting across from you right now in a crappy, plastic booth in Breadstix (an equally craptastic restaurant), inhaling every breadstick that the waiter places on the table, along with a massive mound of spaghetti.

"Ugh, could you be any more disgusting, S?" you mutter, sipping lightly at a cup of decaf (even though the coffee here tastes like ashes in water).

"Shut it, Q," the Latina snaps, pointing a half-eaten breadstick at your face, "just 'cuz you're all nauseated doesn't mean that I can't gets my eats on."

Santana never looks so threatening out of uniform, you muse to yourself, studying your friend closely.

Without the Cheerios ponytail, long, ink black wavy hair falls down Santana's lithe shoulders. They perfectly match the Latina's dark complexion and exotic, gorgeous looks. With a red tanktop and a pair of skinny jeans, the Cheerleader looks like any other typical teenaged girl.

"So," Santana leans back, fork clacking against the silverware, "there's somethin' you wanted me to get done for you?"

You nod, smirking as you take in the shaded interest in Santana's eyes. She always did love your torturous schemes.

"Finn's been a little… unfaithful," You say, one finger circling the rim of your coffee cup.

"Frankenteen, not faithful?" Santana's eyes roll. "Noo! I never would've seen that coming!" There's a mock gasp for good measure, and you fight the urge to chuckle.

"So I thought that you'd-."

"Teach RuPaul a lesson?" Santana leans across the table excitedly, grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of torturing Rachel. You feel a twinge of guilt about the fact that Santana IS so used to teasing Rachel. That'd been all your doing.

"Actually," you bridge your fingers. "You're going to teach **Finn** a lesson."

Santana's jaw drops and her eyes widen before she hides it, leaning back and pretending to act nonchalant.

"You want to teach YOUR boyfriend," she repeats, "a lesson. You want me to punish your BOYFRIEND."

"Yes," you reply smoothly.

"…Not that I wouldn't like to punish Finnocent," Santana puts up her hands in defense, "but you usually go for Man Hands when Finnept does something wrong."

"Finn needs to pay for **his **mistakes," you pause. "He kissed Rachel."

Santana's eyes widen, the straw of her Coke dropping from her mouth. "Oh _dang_."

"Yes, which is why-."

"You called Yentl by her **name**."

You pause, glaring at her. Of all the things she chooses to recognize, she notices that you call Rachel by her _name?_ "Yes. Rachel. It's her name."

"You've **never** called RuPaul by her name," Santana slams her cup down, leaning across the table. "When did you two suddenly become buddies?"

You scowl. "I am **not** friends with Berry. Maybe I just don't want to be a bitch anymore."

The amount of surprise on Santana's face instantly increases. "Okay, who are you and what did you do with Quinn Fabray, the most magnificent bitch of all time?"

"I'm tired of being the bitch,"' you throw your hands up. "I know what it's like to be one of the losers, S. I know what it's like to be taunted and treated like a fucking parasite. And all of that is shit."

In the middle of your rant, you see Santana's face shift, and soon there's a **very** smug grin on her face. It's the same grin that she gets whenever Brittany has some 'alone time' (you shiver in disgust) in store for them.

"What?"

The grin gets larger as you start to scowl. "_**What**_?"

"You wanna fuck Berry!"

Unfortunately, you've taken a sip of your coffee at this time, and by the time the shock of the statement hits your system, the liquid is already flying through the air and into Santana's face.

The Latina looks a bit disgruntled, wiping the coffee from her face as you choke on the remnants of the hot liquid in your throat.

"I-I do not want to," you look around, lowering your voice as you lean across the table, "_fuck_ Rachel Berry."

"You know, people who deny things," Santana's smirking that DAMN smirk again, "are usually hiding something. Like your big. Fat. Gay crush on Berry."

"I have no GAY crush," you hiss.

"Don't think I haven't seen the way you've eyed her," Santana seems even more shocked as several more revelations come to mind. "Holy shit! You practically eye sex her every time she sings a damn song… And back before Berry got all badass, you used to watch her ass when she went down the hall after a slushy!"

"Could you be any **louder**?"

"So you DO wanna fuck her!"

"No, I don't want to sleep with Rachel Berry!" You pound your fist on the table.

Santana pauses, regarding you for a moment before turning back to her glass of Coke with an eyebrow cocked.

"Well, let's just say, hypothetically, you **are** gay for Berry," she lifts a hand to silence you, "I said **hypothetically**, Tubbers."

"I'd say… you should do something about it," Santana's eyes become wounded as she swirls her cup. For the first time, you can see that Santana Lopez, the woman who you thought would **always** hide behind mental shields and take no prisoners, is now vulnerable and exposed before you.

"Listen, Q," Santana looks around nervously, "Let's just say… that _hypothetically_, I have a big, gay crush on Brittany."

You feel surprise course through your veins as your eyes widen. Santana holds up a single finger when you try to speak.

"And let's just say that… _hypothetically_, there's nothing I can do about it because… Because of _expectations_ and because I'm _scared_," Santana draws in a shuddery sigh. "I'm afraid of what _everyone_ would say. I'm afraid of the talks, of the looks… And I'm afraid of what my parents will say."

"But… love isn't really a sin," the Latina looks up at you with watery eyes. "Love has no negative aspects. Love is somethin' sacred… and there's nothing wrong with it."

"God," she continues, "isn't cruel enough to shoot you dead for loving someone. God isn't the type to do anything that cruel. The bible isn't REALLY the true phrasing of what GOD thinks. It's an accumulation of what God said, plus what thousands of other dead old guys said and added to."

"And between me and a murderer, I'd like to think that God would damn the murderer over me," Santana lets out a chuckle before staring seriously into your eyes. "You've always been so much stronger than me, Q. And if, _hypothetically_, you like Berry, I think you should do something about it before someone snatches her up."

It's silent, only the sound of clattering plates echoing through the restaurant.

Santana has shown you her heart. Shown you that… maybe what you're feeling isn't a sin. It's not ideal, nor is it amazing that you feel… something for Rachel Berry.

But maybe… just maybe it isn't a sin.

You close your eyes, a silent tear falling down your cheek as you smile faintly. You put a hand on top of Santana's, squeezing it lightly. "Thank you, Santana."

Santana smiles briefly, before withdrawing behind her bitchy mask, leaning against the back of the booth.

"So, you wanted me to do something to Finnocent?"

* * *

><p>Finn gets slushied.<p>

It's messy, and it makes him whimper like a baby for the day, but it's well worth it for the satisfaction that you feel clouding your veins.

He has to wear PE clothes for the rest of the day that say "LOANER 231" on bright red sharpie, and it makes you laugh deviously as he pouts from class to class about it.

Santana takes the time out of her day to offer you a fist pound and a mischievous grin, which makes it all the more rewarding. It feels like old times again, and it's a welcome change from your usually angsty, pregnant teen existence.

At the same time though, you notice things that you never noticed before, and it scares you.

You notice Rachel Berry, walking down the hall in a pair of tan capris, a fitted navy v-neck, and brown sandals. You notice every curve of beneath that skin tight top, and you see the way those slight little hands (definitely NOT Man Hands) clutch at the binders held tight against Rachel's chest.

Mentally, you groan in terror. Santana's little speech had effected your entire outlook on the whole 'I have feelings for Rachel Berry' end, and it's not in a good way.

Things you refused to notice before are now terribly visible, and it makes you curse against your locker. Because that uncomfortable, unknown emotion low in your stomach?

It's lust, and it's coming in large waves. It's almost like all your years without feeling any desire are coming back to bite you in the ass at this moment.

You fidget uncomfortably during sixth period, AP US History, because Rachel sits right in front of you during that class.

You know Rachel's unaware of your gaze, because you've NEVER wanted to stare at her before.

It's lecture day, so naturally Rachel is engrossed in the pile of steadily growing notes at her table. You observe her _bend_ oh so slowly over to get a piece of paper, so as not to make any sounds that might jar the teacher's learning, her shirt coming up to show a patch of deliciously caramel skin.

A lump builds in your throat, and you try to look away, but as your eyes draw up Rachel's back, you notice a single tendril of hair slide down her throat, and it makes you want to _lick_ and _kiss_ the slender, undoubtedly soft column of skin.

You groan, smashing your head against your desk.

'_Ohhh fuck you, Santana Lopez,'_ you think miserably as you watch Rachel expose more of that sinful neck. '_Fuck you to Helllll…'_

The rest of your thoughts fade into an ocean of carnal desires.

You never get around to taking notes today.

* * *

><p>You think God is starting to punish you for your lack of faith in him.<p>

Because Rachel decides to perform a song in Glee club today, wearing those out-of-character clothes on that slim, dancer-like body of hers.

'_Oh why, God,'_ you literally sob in your mind. '_**Why**__ couldn't she have just worn the damn owl sweater today!'_

Because while Rachel's skirts are sinfully short, you at least are exposed enough to them that it doesn't shake you anymore.

But Rachel wearing **form fitting** and **fashionable** clothing makes you want to curse and praise God wildly at the SAME time.

"Mr. Schue asked us to do a song to try out for the solo at Sectionals," Rachel smiled, crossing her arms. "And while I initially wanted to do something a little more… Broadway. I think it's important to show that I have a diverse love of music."

"Therefore, I've decided to do a little Billy Joel today," Rachel says, motioning toward the band members located at the entrance of the room. The small diva skips over to the piano, smiling lightly at the silent pianist.

"Brad, you can relax for today," she motions to the front row of seats.

When Brad is securely in his seat, Rachel sits on the bench, cracking her fingers and setting up posture before nodding at the drummer, who is tapping earnestly at his drums, clearly eager to start.

Rachel's fingers fly agilely across the piano, plinking out a fast series of notes that shock everyone with their startling accuracy.

Yet another Rachel Berry surprise, you think to yourself. The fact that Rachel Berry can apparently play piano with the best of them. Another facet of Rachel's innumerable faces and talents.

Drums and guitar quickly join in. The music building in ferocity as Rachel's face transfigures in accordance with the coming lyrics, fixing into a conversational mask as she flips away from the piano and faces the club, leg crossed.

"_There's a place in the world for the angry young man, with his working class ties and his radical plans. He refuses to bend, he refuses to crawl, and he's always at home with his back to the wall! And he's proud of this scars and the battles he's lost, and he struggles and bleeds as he hangs on his cross, and he likes to be known as the angry young man!" _Rachel flips her attention back to the piano, pounding out the next lines whilst grinning at the similarly jovial band members. Her mouth opens, and a serious of impressive belts follow and lead into the next verse.

"_Give a moment or two to the angry young man,__with his foot in his mouth and his heart in his hand. He's been stabbed in the back, he's been misunderstood. It's a comfort to know his intentions are good. And he sits in a room with a lock on the door, with his__maps__and his__medals__laid out on the floor! And he likes to be known as the angry young man."_

Beads of sweat form on Rachel's face as she grins, belting out the lyrics as though she does these types of pieces everyday. The Glee club is noticeably as shocked as you feel, watching Rachel Berry sing her heart out in something OTHER than a Broadway hit with just as great an end result.

Your hands tighten on your knees as you watch the muscles in Rachel's neck work furiously to sing. Lust pools low in your belly in a delicious ache, and you shoot a glare to a smirking Santana, even though she looks just as pained as you do.

And who can blame you?

This side of Rachel Berry is…

_Hot_.

The song ends swiftly, much to your dismay/relief. Rachel is panting at the front of the room, soaking in every little compliment that flies from the mouths of her peers with a bashful smile. But soon, that smiling Rachel is gone and replaced with the Diva, who demands the next performer come up.

You look down at the diva with glazed eyes.

Somehow. You really need to figure Rachel Berry out.

* * *

><p>How could Finn be so <em>stupid?<em>

How could he _do this_ to **you** of all people?

Earlier that evening, Finn had come over to meet your parents for the first time, clad in a fresh, crisp shirt, black tie, and jacket. A boom box was clutched in his hand, and his face was pulled in that familiar, scared puppy dog look as always.

But you should've known **something** bad was going to happen.

The dinner had been going well enough, with your parents somewhat satisfied with your stupid man child of a boyfriend. There had been a bit of laughter, some small talk, but at least your Daddy approved.

At least **this** part of your life was still untouched by the drama of school.

But then Finn had gotten up and started singing some damn song about 'having his baby' and the night had gone to Hell.

Your Father had yelled, your mother had cried. And Finn stood there like some sort of buffoon, watching the events unfold with nothing but a stupid little 'oh' on his face.

Your Father disowned you. Threw you away as though you weren't his child. Just a meaningless scrap of life he had reluctantly created and spent the last 16 years raising for his own torturous amusement.

He didn't hold your hand, he didn't offer to help.

He just threw you out while your Mother, the one person in your life who you **never** thought would EVER show any cruelty to you, stood there.

And that's how you ended up standing on the stoop outside your house, belongings littered around you as Finn stood beside you, just looking down at the space between his shoes.

"How _could_ you, Finn?" you utter amidst the floor of tears falling down your face. "How could you just **do** that to me? Why didn't you ASK before you did it?"

"I-I just-," the stupid idiot closes his mouth, thinking for a moment before murmuring. "I just wanted them to know the truth."

"Then tell **your** mother!" you scream. "I TOLD you what would happen if they found out! Now they don't want me anymore!"

Your voice quiets. "Now I'm just…"

'_Now I'm just another statistic.'_

"I-It'll be okay, Quinn," his large hands grasp at your shoulders, holding them in what he thinks to be reassuring (it just feels like he's squeezing you far too tightly). "Y-you can stay with me a-and-."

"No," you whisper, closing your eyes. You'd rather DIE than stay with him.

"Wh-what?"

"No," you look up, glaring into his eyes and making him flinch. "I'm not going to stay with you. I'm **never** going to stay with you."

"But Quinn-," he tries to pull you into those gangly arms of his, but all you do is shove him away.

"Don't touch me!" you scream. Something makes you run, run down the street and want to be as far away from Finn Hudson as possible.

Everything had finally come full circle. You're alone, unwanted, and unloved by **everyone**. You have no home, no family.

It's just you and your baby girl.

You can hear Finn's giant footsteps behind you, and it makes you run even harder, till you don't hear him anymore.

By the time you stop running, you're out of breath and on some nameless street in the middle of some neighborhood.

Your shoulders heave with sobs as you sit breathlessly on the curb, face buried in your hands.

You curse Finn Hudson. You curse Puck. You curse every single little thing in Lima, Ohio.

You just sit there in agony and hide like some sort of coward in the dark of the night, clothed in those uncomfortable, stiff and starched clothes you wore to dinner.

You stiffen as you hear the slam of a door, and the fall of slippers against pavement from across the street. Arms wrap protectively around your belly as you look up, squinting at the flashlight the approaching figure shines directly upon you.

"My God, Quinn," the person gasps, leaning down to look at you. "What are you doing all the way over here… And… You're crying."

Your eyes adjust, and you see Rachel Berry, clad in plaid sleeping pants, a tanktop, and a heavy argyle hoodie draped around her shoulders. Her eyes are full of concern, as she places a gentle touch on your tearstained face.

"What's wrong?" she asks softly.

The dam bursts as you throw yourself into Rachel's arms.

Just like that day in the choir room, Rachel holds you close, rocking you there, in the darkness of the night.

Again, you lose yourself, comforted by the touch of her skin, and the smell of her hair.

And you are comforted.

Because you are not alone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** End chapter. Thanks for reading :) Please **review**, I'd love to hear any comments anyone has.


	7. The Strength of His Rage

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee or any of these characters (just Joshua Bayani).

**A/N:** This chapter, again, deviates largely from Glee's original script. In the end, all events that happened in season 1 will happen, just in a different order. I've sort of reinvented Rachel from the series, as you can all already tell. Thanks to **TheMuggleInDumbledoresArmy, Cassicio, Orokid, kiarcheo, sugarspiceandnotsonice, gleekmx1, jupiter01, Stessa, BattleKitten, RandomOtakuFromTumblr, **and **Jennifer0912 **for their great reviews! I appreciate all your support! Here's the next chapter... please **review** if you get the chance :)!

* * *

><p>Chapter 7: The Strength of His Rage<p>

* * *

><p>"Quinn, you need to get up," Rachel murmurs softly into your ear. "It's about forty degrees out here, and neither you nor I are dressed in the proper fashion."<p>

It's been over half an hour since you somewhat ironically ended up in front of Rachel's house in your crappy dress clothes. Thirty long minutes since your parents kicked you out of the house. Thirty minutes since your parents decided to pretend they **never** had a second daughter.

There are many things that need attending to. The Finn 'problem', your housing arrangement, how you're going to survive…

But none of that really matters right now, because Rachel's here, and she's giving you your sanity back inch by little inch.

You push your face deeper into the crook of Rachel's neck, bathing it in silent tears as you shake your head. "Please… I-I don't want to g-go h-home… I-I don't have anywhere t-to go…"

You can feel Rachel's muscles stiffen beneath the fabric of her jacket. A heavy swallow follows this, and you can feel her jaw working to decide what to say.

"…What happened?" the voice is that deep, furious voice that you heard her use that day against Finn. It sends a chill down your back as Rachel tightens her grasp on your cashmere cardigan.

So you tell Rachel everything that transpired. With each passing second, you feel already tense muscles double, the grasp that Rachel has on you tightens considerably, and you can hear her teeth grind furiously in some attempt to manage her anger.

When the chat finishes, Rachel sits there, breathing far heavier than before. The calm aura that usually surrounds the singer is lost. Instead, you feel some sort of violent, murderous haze that leaks forth from every tensed muscle in her body. The petite frame shakes under the exertion.

It makes you feel uneasy. Want to draw away from Rachel and shiver in fear. That which made you feel comfortable now makes you want to withdraw in yourself.

But as soon as it is there, it's gone as Rachel relaxes, pushing you back and standing from the curb, pulling you up with her.

Rachel's dark eyes study you faintly, at the tear stains on your face and the crinkled clothing, before they snap up to connect with your own hazel orbs. Those eyes strip past every layer and search for something in your soul. It makes you feel a good deal more exposed than you'd like to be at the moment, but you don't look away. You just allow her to do as she pleases.

"You can stay here tonight," Rachel says softly. As you open your mouth, she puts up a single finger, silencing you. "You can't argue with me, Quinn. It's well past nine and you don't have a phone or a car to get you anywhere. You can call and make more favorable arrangements in the morning. But for tonight, you're staying here. No protests."

With that, the diva grabs your arm, turning toward her house and pulling you with her.

A rush of warm air greets you as Rachel turns the brass knob on a beautiful, stained glass and cherry wood varnished door.

You step onto a warm, mahogany floor looking around the beige walled rotunda, feeling the gust of frigid wind nag at your back as Rachel slams the door closed behind you. Rachel steps forward toward a carpeted staircase in a hallway to the left, motioning for you to follow her.

As you climb, you notice that the walls are littered with various photographs. Rachel at a very young age, with that winning smile of hers, holding up a shiny trophy for a dance competition. Rachel, in a t-shirt and a pair of baggy pants, holding up a black belt next to a stern looking Jewish man.

You freeze at one particular picture. It's in a silver-plated frame (all the rest are in humble, wooden ones) with silver filigree dancing about the delicate surface. The sheen of the metal is impossible for anything less than pure silver (you know, because your Dad owns a fair amount of gold and silver). It's obviously a memory precious to the Berrys.

The man in the picture possesses head full of curly brown hair is sitting on a tanned leather couch in a blue button down shirt and a pair of black shorts. Behind rounded, thick frames, you can see that his eyes are a startling, reddish brown. The same color of the girl only paces away.

In a pair of strong arms, a tiny little baby's face peeks out, eyes closed and small pink lips curled in a contented smile. Little wisps of brown hair, the same color as the man's, curl about the child's bare head.

Next to the man, a black man rests, an arm resting protectively about his companion. Handsome features are curled into a smile as grayish eyes look down upon the little baby, a large hand grasping tiny digits.

"Those are my Dads."

You jump as you look to your right and see Rachel smiling faintly at the photo.

"They'd just taken me home from the hospital," the little diva explains. "Bubbe took the picture as soon as they could sit down."

"This," she points to the Jewish man, "is my Papa, Hiram."

"And this," she shifts her finger over to the black man, "is my Daddy Leroy."

"They look so…" you pause for a moment, eyes wandering over the scene once again. "Happy."

"They were," Rachel's finger falls from the spot. "Papa always tells me that the moment he first held me was the happiest moment of his life… apart from the moment he and Daddy got married."

Rachel tugs on your arm again, leading you down a white washed hallway and down a row of several doors.

"Where are your Dads, anyway?" you ask softly as you walk.

"Papa is an ER doctor and Daddy comes home late on Fridays to put in extra hours at the law office," Rachel explains, pushing open a door. "They'll be home pretty soon."

"They won't mind?" You step into the room, looking around.

Rachel Berry's room isn't quite what you anticipated.

It's the same yellow that you observe every time you click on a MySpace video. In one of the corners, you can see the familiar Annie poster hanging on the wall, Wicked, Spring Awakening not far from that (it's funny, but the actress on the poster looks freakishly like Rachel), and a display of multiple belts hanging next to them.

Against one wall a light stained desk sits neatly against the wall, the surface filled with a plethora of papers. A bookcase, cluttered full of sheet music and multiple novels (you're surprised, because a lot of the books in the case are ones that you have read or WOULD read if you could). Rachel's bed, with a red and blue quilted covering, sits in the middle of the room, _The Great Gatsby_ resting on the mismatched pillows.

An iHome sits on a tan nightstand, playing Mozart's Symphony 25. Next to the nightstand, the familiar guitar rests on display, polished to perfection.

It's not exactly the type of room that you would expect Rachel Berry to inhabit. After all, Rachel Berry, at least the one you're most familiar with, is a huge Broadway fanatic. You'd thought there was a ton of Broadway posters, a shrine to Patti Lupone and Barbra Streisand, along with some sort of ridiculous amount of stars.

But it feels warm and lived in, everything you'd ever wanted to feel in your home, just in that one little space. After all, your room is white washed and full of dark black furniture with pictures devoted to God in it. The only semblance of being a home? The little picture of you, Brittany, and Santana that rests on your bedside table (next to the giant portrait of Jesus that hung above your bed).

Rachel takes off the argyle sweater, draping it on her computer chair. "I'm going to go to my Dads' room. Get you some clothes. Papa's pajamas should fit you."

As Rachel, turns to leave the room, your eyes are instantly drawn to something on her shoulder…

_On her __**shoulder**__._

It's the scar. The same ropy, deliberate scar that graced the tanned shoulder of the guitarist at _Jack's_. Every last inch of it, down to the knotty stab marking at the very heart of the grouping.

Rachel's the guitarist. The woman who sang with such maturity in that practice room, that deep, smoky voice that sounded so unlike Rachel.

The siren with the scar.

Where was the scar from? And more importantly, why did someone as docile or as kind as Rachel get stabbed so violently? Why was she even **near** someone with intent to kill?

A scar as nasty as that one didn't just happen on accident. It happened when someone came at you full well knowing they were going to damage something. It came from someone who **knew** how to handle a knife skillfully, as the cuts centered about the area that would have undoubtedly have caused the most damage.

The cuts aren't jagged, as though someone ripped through the flesh. They are clean and narrow. Intentional.

Lost in your thoughts, you barely notice when Rachel reenters the room until she shoves a bundle of clothing into your hands, nodding over at the door over on the other side of the room.

"You can change there," Rachel says, before sitting down at her desk, taking her cell phone out of one of the numerous drawers.

You sit up, walking through the door, into the bathroom, and locking it.

As you change, outside, you hear Rachel talking on the phone in a low voice, the tone gentle and loving.

It's probably one of her Dads, you think, wrestling on the light blue shirt of your borrowed night attire. After all, she needs to ask _someone_ before just letting a total stranger into the house. It's understandable. And Rachel doesn't like anyone that you know of.

But you lean against the door anyway, out of sheer curiosity, cracking it open slightly to catch the oncoming waves of words.

"Please do this for me, Joshua."

You feel shock and the ever familiar draught of jealousy flood your innards as you furiously hold onto the cotton of the plaid boxers you're putting on.

It's that **boy** from the theatre camp. The one who regarded you with such distain when you introduced yourself a few weeks back. Rachel's friend, the one who would kiss her gently on the cheeks…

A gesture that she would return in kind each time with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her marvelous eyes.

You silence our desire to stomp out there and throw the phone against the wall, drawing closer to the door.

"It's on Rochester Avenue. You know, a few blocks away? The really pure white house with the 'Praise the Lord' flag? Her things should be on the lawn…"

*Pause* "…Yes, it's Quinn Fabray's house. Her parents just kicked her out, J.B, what was I going to do?"

"You're being very immature and unreasonable, I don't appreciate that. God, I couldn't just kick her out, Josh. She has nowhere to go."

You feel a twinge of fear run through your heart at this. You can guess what Joshua Bayani's saying, and you know that none of it is positive. Then again, you can't blame him. You'd probably be pretty pissed if your best friend wanted to help the main instrument of YOUR High School torture as well.

But that doesn't make you feel any less hurt or angry by what he's saying, though you know you have no reason to feel as such.

You attribute it to your Rachel involved denial... if you're even _in_ denial anymore. You're not quite sure.

Perhaps the proper term for you would be 'a work in progress, recovering from a strong bout of gay panic and hoping to assert herself.'

"_Salamat po_, Josh. I'll see you tomorrow morning, yeah?"

"…I know, Joshua. Goodnight."

You wait a few moments after, listening to Rachel shuffle about her room. When it the movements die down, you slowly crack open the door, hazel orbs falling upon the bed.

Rachel is immersed in _The Great Gatsby_, scanning across the page with practiced ease. She looks up at you as you draw closer to the bed, emotionless.

A lump forms in your throat as Rachel sits up, stretching her arms up toward the ceiling. A delicious amount of caramel skin exposes itself to your hungry eyes. Fingers twitch with the desire to touch as a slick tongue ghosts its way across your lips.

"I can make up a bed if you want," she offers, oblivious to your hungry leer. "Otherwise, you can take the bed and I'll go downstairs and sleep on the couch."

You blink, shaking your head, eyes falling to the hardwood floors. "You shouldn't have to leave your room. I'll sleep on th-."

"No, you will **not** be sleeping on the couch, Quinn Fabray," Rachel's eyes snap up to you from the book's pages, glaring. "The couch is not a place where a pregnant woman should sleep, as it is poor for your back. A poor back will not allow you to carry the weight of your child in the coming months. Therefore this is not a point of discussion."

"Well, I'm sure as **Hell** not going to allow YOU to sleep on the damn couch, Berry," you mutter. "It's your frickin' house."

"I'm not going to allow you to sleep on the couch either, _Fabray_," Rachel's voice falls to a husky growl that sends a chill down your spine. Never has your stupid last name sounded so _sultry_ before, and it makes you curse God once more for your awakening from your damn denial.

"W-well how about we compromise?" your voice trembles.

Rachel lifts an eyebrow, a light smile painting her lips. "A compromise?"

"We'll share."

Rachel brings a hand up to her chin, rubbing it thoughtfully in a mock show of wondering. A few moments later, she moves to the side, pulling back the comforter of her Queen Sized bed. "Okay, get in, Fabray. We're sleeping now."

You blink for a moment, looking upon the smirking Rachel with wide-eyes. "…That was quick."

"Because I'm damn tired," Rachel grabs your arm for the third or fourth time, pulling you off your feet and into the bed. The diva pulls the covers over you before clapping her hands, plunging the room into darkness.

"Goodnight, Quinn." Rachel shifts in bed, the blanket shifting as she pulls it over her, yawning mightily before stilling.

"Goodnight Rachel…"

* * *

><p>When you wake up the next morning, Rachel's side of the bed is empty. The covers are neatly pulled back and cold to touch, signifying the fact that Rachel had been absent from bed for quite some time.<p>

Your eyes flicker over to Rachel's iHome, 10:30 shining in bright blue lettering. It's the latest you've ever slept in on a Saturday, since church is at a nauseatingly early 6:00 in the morning. But you're usually used to rising so early because you've been doing it since you were a little girl.

But the exhaustion of the last month has caught up to you, and so you've slept past your mark by four hours.

You hear shifting downstairs, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting teasingly to your nostrils, prompting a large growl from your stomach.

Throwing back the covers, you place your feet on the cold floor, hefting yourself to your feet and opening the door slowly.

You climb down the flight of stairs, following the aroma past a large, family room (equipped with a Laz-E-Boy chair, large brown, leather sofa, and an adjoining loveseat and coffee table), and into the dining room.

Sitting at the green granite countertop stretching from the wall, nursing a cup of steaming coffee, is a disheveled looking young man, face not visible from the doorway. His muscular frame covered in a blue and black jacket with gray sweatpants and a black tank.

Rachel stands over a hot stove, stainless steel stove, hair back in a messy ponytail, still in her pajamas from the previous night. She looks up from her place, smiling warmly at you, a bead of sweat dripping down her forehead.

"Good morning, Quinn," the little brunette takes the frying pan full of scrambled eggs off the stove, kicking a hardwood cabinet open by her feet and pulling a plate out. "Take a seat, you're just in time."

The man sitting at the counter slowly turns his head, and you instantly recognize him when you see shockingly steel blue eyes bear heavily into yours.

Joshua Bayani looks at you expressionlessly, a single muscular arm reaching out to pull out a seat beside him before he turns back to face his friend, moving his mug aside as Rachel places a heaping plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon in front of him.

You slowly step forward, nervousness wiring your stomach as you hesitantly take a seat beside the silent singer.

"This isn't your vegan crap, is it, Rach?" Joshua grunts, picking up his fork and scrutinizing the eggs at the end with a sour frown.

"No, Joshua," Rachel levels the spatula at Joshua's face. "It's not my politically correct diet. I made fresh slaughtered hog and baby fetuses just for your damn self."

You watch with astonishment as Joshua lets out a laugh, putting the fork to his mouth and digging into his food with gusto.

Rachel places a plate in front of you, along with a hot mug of coffee before setting a plate full of fruit on the counter next to you, throwing a towel over her shoulder before joining you on the other side.

You study the food in front of you with an appraising eye, lifting a piece of pancake to your mouth and chewing. Your eyes widen considerably as the flavors spread evenly across your mouth.

So now Rachel Berry can _cook_?

There's a soft chuckle beside you, emanating from Joshua's handsome mouth.

"Yeah, I was surprised when I ate breakfast too," he takes a stab at the pancake stack. "Because Rach can burn water and every other substance in the world, yet somehow still make a damn good breakfast."

"It wasn't that bad!" Rachel scowled, swallowing a mouthful of coffee.

"You and I both know that's not true, Rach," Joshua lowers his voice, smirking softly. "She nearly **killed** her Dad with her attempts at Vegan Spaghetti."

"That is NOT true, Joshua Bayani," Rachel throws at dishtowel at a laughing Joshua's face while you giggle at the redness on her cheeks.

You watch with a faint smirk on your lips as Joshua and Rachel argue between each other for the next few minutes.

Little by little the pieces begin to fit together. Facets of Rachel's personality begin to solidify.

This Rachel is sarcastic and cheerful, a perfect blend of that deviously smiling Rachel that tricked the Glee Club into unity, whilst maintaining the outright optimism of the Glee Club Diva that annoys you all to tears.

You haven't seen the wise Rachel, or the siren make an appearance in her visage, other than the scar on the girl's shoulder. But you know that they're there, just beneath the surface of this puzzling girl.

This Rachel makes you smile. Makes that annoying fluttering in your stomach increase tenfold. It reminds you of that stupidly grinning, drunk Rachel in a strange way. Because the smile that runs across her lips as Joshua sends another irritating smirk at her is the same smile that broke across her lips before she kissed you.

The peace, however, is broken by a loud, rapping knock at the door.

The smile fades from Rachel's lips as she pulls the chair back, motioning toward for you and Joshua to remain sitting.

She vanishes from sight, and soon you hear the door open.

"Finn, what do you want?"

Your jaw freezes mid chew, a million thoughts echoing through your mind as panic makes all your muscles seize. Joshua places a tentative, gentle hand on your shoulder, eyes narrowing.

"Brittany said that she saw some guy drive off with Quinn's stuff. Said he was headed toward your house," your boyfriend's voice echoes across the walls, sending a disgusted shiver down your back as flashbacks of last night come to mind. "Is Quinn here?"

"Yes, Quinn is here, Finn," Rachel answers icily. "Why are **you** here, though?"

"I'm here to bring her home," you can hear the oblivious note in his voice. "My Mom said that she can stay with us."

"I don't think that Quinn wants to see you right now, Finn," you hear the retreat of steps, knowing Rachel is pushing him out the door. "So it's best if you head home."

"Rach, just let me see her," Finn lets out a childish whimper, and you can hear him step back into the house, and actually make it part of the way down the hall.

"Finn, you messed up terribly last night. She doesn't want to see you."

The steps continue to come closer and closer, and soon you see Finn standing in the doorway of the kitchen, that stupid smile on his face. Rachel, over his shoulder, stands with her arms crossed, a disapproving glint in her eye.

"Quinn, Mom said you can stay with us!" the stupid smile widens ever more as he puts his hands on your shoulders. "We have the basement all ready and everything!"

You push his hands off you, pushing him in the chest as he attempts to lean in and kiss you. "Finn, I told you last night, I'm not staying with you."

His brow furrows confusedly. "Look, I know last night you were all hormonal-."

"Finn, you told my parents about the baby without my permission!" the rage builds fresh in your veins. "You sang a damn song without consulting me, and I got **kicked** out of my house! I'm NOT staying with you."

Finn's face creases into that gassy infant face that he **thinks** is cute. "But… what about the ba-."

"I'd rather handle the baby on my own, now, Finn," your voice lowers considerably.

Finn looks broken, absolutely broken as he tries to reach toward you again. "B-but sh-she's m-mi-."

"Between last night and your little Rachel attempted affair," Finn's eyes bulge, "I don't think that it's wise for us to continue this."

You give a heavily inhale, closing your eyes. "It's over, Finn."

Tears fall down Finn's face, his lower lip quivering. He points an accusing finger at you, arm trembling.

"You can't take the baby away from me… I'm that baby's FATHER. You can't DO this to me, Quinn."

"I'm the one carrying the baby, Finn," you say, standing from your seat to look at him. "And if I can't trust you, then I can't trust you to help me through the next few months."

"Y-you bitch!" he roars. You stumble backwards, panicked as he steps toward you, pushing chairs out of the way to reach for you. "You can't do this to me! You can't take that baby away from me!"

Joshua shoves you behind him, steel blues flashing dangerously as he draws to his full height, fists clenching as he faces Finn.

"Back off, _tulala_," he growls. "Rachel asked you to leave, so get the Hell out of here."

"This is none of your business, fag!" Finn hisses, pushing Joshua. "Get the Hell out of _my_ way."

Within moments, the two boys start grappling. Joshua pounding away at Finn's midsection, Finn throwing a right hook into Joshua's chin. Blood streams from both boys' faces as you scream in horror.

You try to pull Finn off of Joshua, yelling pleadingly, pounding at his muscular chest. Finn pushes you away, sending a stinging slap into your cheek and sending you falling to the floor, nose bleeding profusely.

Suddenly, a blur inserts itself between Finn and Joshua, effectively separating the two.

Finn lets out a pained scream, hands falling to his mouth and nose, blood oozing out from between his fingers as he glares, wide-eyed at a furious little Rachel Berry, her fist dyed in crimson and eyes blazing a dark, wine red.

"Finn Hudson," Rachel's voice has gone down to that deep, hoarse voice from that moment in the auditorium. Each feature is locked into a livid mask of hatred. "You came into my house without my permission and accosted my best friend… and I was already pissed. But hitting a woman? That made me fucking FURIOUS!"

Rachel grabs Finn by the collar, drawing him, locking eyes with the scared boy. "You fucking listen to me, Hudson. You are not the baby's Father. And if you're dense enough to believe that you can impregnate a woman through a hot tub, you're obviously not fucking fit to be a damn father."

Finn looks like he's about to rage again, until Rachel pushes him roughly against the wall, lean muscles tensing. "Now you're going to get the hell out of my house, and you're going to leave Quinn alone and act like a man for once in your DAMN life or else I will bust your face in so hard, you won't be able to sing for **months**."

She shakes the boy, smirking cruelly. "Do you understand?"

Finn nods before Rachel pulls him off the wall, pushing him through the hallway.

You don't miss the way Rachel's hand comes up to grasp at the scar on her shoulder, fingers trembling with something akin to fear.

And as Rachel disappears, and you pull yourself from the floor, trembling, you don't miss the haunted look in Rachel's face when she reenters the room, hand still heavy on the scar…

Still holding onto the past.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Joshua is a half-filipino :) _Talala:_ Means 'idiot' and _Salamat Po: _thank you (according to a translator/my friend). Please **review**, as it helps me to write :)


	8. Friends

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee or any of its characters (I DO own Joshua Bayani, however!)

**A/N:** I LOVE you guys. I'm truly thankful for all the reception this story is getting. I'm wanna give a shout out to **carouselhorse, Musicmakesmehigh, Cassicio, Smayz, fussyviolet, XxwhisperingxX, IveHadWorse, kingcyrus, thetamarine, kahlin420, jupiter01, ScorpioP, KW Jordan, jennifer0912, w1cked, romangst, d80p, **and **Stessa** for their amazing support. Definitely couldn't write this story without their lovely comments! I've been rewatching Season 1 this week so I can remind myself of the twists and intricacies of the series. So I've been tweaking the outline for the story here and there. By the way, in my old fandom, I used to ask my readers if they had any questions for me: so I'd like to extend the same opportunity to all of you, as long as the questions aren't offensive. I hope you guys enjoy the chapter :) Please **review**, as comments ALWAYS help to brighten my day and encourage a healthy dose of writing.

* * *

><p>Chapter 8: Friends<p>

* * *

><p>Your arms shake as you pull yourself gently from the floor, pulling yourself against the counter to lean next to a profusely bleeding Joshua.<p>

A crimson dyed hand clenches at his nose, a dishtowel clasped in his hands as he fights to stifle the flow of the viscous fluid. Blue eyes slide over to observe you, a cough sending a light spray of blood across the tile as he sends you an attempted smile.

"Are you okay?" His voice is muffled and pained, and it makes your heart zing with guilt. Joshua never would have been hurt if you hadn't run away from Finn.

You nod tentatively, wincing as you pinch your bleeding nose. Your eyes flicker over to the doorway, where an ashen faced Rachel stands, eyes glazed over. Emotionless.

A delicate hand clasps at the ropy scar etched on that muscular shoulder, pulling ferociously at it, reddening the pale skin with the force.

Rachel looks haunted. Locked inside her body, almost as though she wants to crawl out of her own body and escape from this room.

It reminds you of the ghostlike manner in which you held yourself those two brief days after you slept with Puck. The constant remembrance of that one, terrible mistake, playing over and over in a horrifying loop in your head.

Joshua looks up at Rachel, trying shakily to get to his feet, and failing miserably as he falls once more against the counter with a pained groan.

Rachel, at that instant, snaps forth from her nightmare. The familiar twinkle enters dark chocolates again, the color returning as Rachel gets on her knees next to her friend, pressing him into a sitting position with a scowl on her face.

"Joshua Bayani, don't you **dare** move," she removes Joshua's fingers from about his face, swatting at them as the boy attempts to cover the swelling once more.

"Rach, I'm bleeding," Joshua sputters, coughing once more as the diva attempts to mop the blood away from about his nose. "I don't wanna _die_ from blood loss. Let me stifle the bleed."

Rachel scoffs, as she observes his nose. "Josh, I thought **I** was the drama queen in this friendship."

"You are—hey, watch it!" he winces when Rachel presses down on the bridge of his nose. "I mean, who was the girl who freaks out every time she gets a headache?"

"I'm checking if anything's broken," Rachel answers to the first, then smirks, "and I haven't had a tumor scare in about two years, Josh. So your point is nil."

You watch Rachel shift her hands over Joshua's face gently, that friendly scowl still locked on her face. The pain in your face dulling with the warmth that you feel deep in your belly. There again is that kind, sarcastic facet from before Finn's intrusion, on display again.

You wonder to yourself: why has Rachel never shown this side to the rest of the club? Why doesn't she dress this way at school?

The Glee Club… the whole school would accept her if she acted like this spunky, kind, calm person. Rachel Berry could've been someone great. Someone whose popularity could've rivaled yours.

This Rachel is likeable and genuine… _Loveable_.

"Well, J.B.," Rachel gives a small smile, ruffling the boy's hair, "you're going to live. Your nose isn't broken, no broken teeth… you're just going to be sore for a VERY long time."

"Yay," he mutters halfheartedly, lifting his arms in mock triumph. "My face will liiiveee!"

You chuckle as he places his hands over his face, simulating the noises of a roaring crowd.

"Whoaaa, no celebrating yet, showman," Rachel smirks, her eyes flashing sadistically. "You're sleeping over so that Papa can check you. And you know what that means-."

"Oh God," blue eyes widen in horror. "You KNOW that he overmedicates! Are you really so cruel, Rachel Berry?"

"That's what you get," Rachel pulls Joshua to his feet, "for trying to be all 'me man' instead of calmly talking out the situation." Rachel pauses, that damned smirk (it's sending VERY uncomfortable electric zings down to areas that you'd rather not think about when your nose might potentially be broken) still on her face. "And I think he still has a nice stash of Xanax for you, Joshua."

Rachel helps Joshua to settle onto a chair, pushing a clean towel gently onto his nose before turning to you.

The smirk's fierce edges soften, and perfect, pearly whites appear through full red lips. Glinting eyes soften as she lowers onto the ground beside you, lifting hands to yours and gently pulling them free.

"Are you okay?" she asks softly, chocolates staring into hazels.

Your mouth goes dry at the tender… at the _loving_ look that's etched across those beautiful features.

You've never seen someone direct such a look at you before. Not even your parents. They were too busy getting drunk, losing themselves in the sting of whiskey traveling down their throats. To block out the vision of this 'imperfect' world full of 'imperfect' people that God has consigned them to live in…

But here is a girl who looks at you with tenderness. She doesn't want you to be perfect. She doesn't **expect** anything from you. She gives you more than what your parents have given you, without asking for anything in return.

You've been terrible to her. Mocked her endlessly. Slushied her…

But she's been kind to you.

She's been good.

You nod softly, your eyes fluttering closed as she traces the ridges of your face, checking for any bruising or anything broken. You memorize every touch; fingers feel warm, there's a light pressure and a light caress with every glide.

It's so much better than a boy's touch. There's nothing rough, there's nothing heavy and unyielding against your skin. There's no unpleasant force behind every press. Only compassion. Only gentleness.

Those hands suddenly draw away from your skin as your eyes open. You find that you have leaned in, and that Rachel's pupils are dilated. You can feel hot breath against your bottom lip, and you observe the fact that if you just leaned in a little more, your lips would touch.

There's a throat clear from behind Rachel that snaps you both out of your reverie. Your eyes snap to see an amused expression painted across Joshua's injured features: a raised eyebrow, and a small smirk on a split lip.

Rachel snaps to attention, running a hand through her hair before backing away, laughing nervously. "U-um… Y-your nose will be fine. Nothing's broken. Only light bruising."

The diva jumps to her feet jumping nervously as her eyes dart about the room. "U-um… I-I'll go g-get everyone s-some new clothes aaanddd call Papa… y-yeah."

And with that, Rachel disappears, leaving you confused and somewhat embarrassed, and Joshua with that stupid smirk still on his face.

* * *

><p>About half an hour after Rachel phoned in the call to her 'Papa,' Mr. Hiram Berry arrived home in the form of a ridiculously loud car roar tearing up the block.<p>

The front door slams open and closed, before a short, semi-balding version of the man you observed in the photo steps into the kitchen, familiar browns glinting in worry, chest heaving.

Joshua picks his head up from the counter (dressed in a loose tank and a pair of shorts, undoubtedly Hiram's) to smile as best his swelling features will allow.

Mr. Berry, however, does not return the smile. Instead, his eyes widen in horror as he tears over to Joshua, grabbing him by the shirt. A loud, tenor pierces the air.

"Where is Rachel, Joshua?" Hiram shakes the poor boy. "Is she hurt badly? Is there any blood? Are any of her bones broken?"

As a stream of questions falls from the frantic man's voice, you unconsciously note that **this** is probably where Rachel received her tendency to ramble.

You know from the story that Rachel told of her conception, that no one truly knows 'which Dad' is truly Rachel's biological father. There was something in it about a turkey baster and love, or something to that effect. You can't remember all the details at this exact moment. But you can **truly** tell the origin of Rachel's genetic material.

"Papa," a gentle voice broke through the din of the room.

Rachel's hands fall gently to her father's shoulders as the man drops Joshua, eyes tearing up as he embraces his daughter.

The diva's lips part in a smile as she rocks the man back and forth. "Papa, I'm fine… really."

"Rachel, my little _kochav_," Mr. Berry pulls back, studiously searching for any sign of injury. "Ohhh, you are alright! It warms my heart to see that you are whole."

Rachel chuckles as her father's hand gently brushes back a stray lock of brown hair, holding her father's hand to her cheek. "You know that I can handle myself, Papa… But I'm afraid that Joshua and my new friend didn't get off so easily. Can you take a look at them for me, Papa?"

Your heart almost breaks as you observe the easy interaction between father and daughter. You never had this type of relationship with _your_ father.

Your father was strict and formal. He kept to his study at night, and the only times he ever wanted to see you? The moments before chastity balls or before church, to observe you in your alter-server uniform as he praised the Lord for giving him such a charitable daughter.

In public, his affection was strained and synthetic. He would hold an arm around his _perfect_ wife (at home, he NEVER touched your Mother if he could help it), laugh without merriness in his eyes, and kiss you on the cheek to display his _perfect_ daughter to the world (he never praised you, otherwise, not even after you made Cheerios Captain or brought home straight A's all through middle school and every year of high school so far).

You just assumed that ALL fathers were like that. But apparently… apparently, THIS is a family.

"New friend, my little bird?" Hiram's eyes turn upon you, observing you with probing orbs. "Why, who is this?"

"Quinn Fabray, Papa," you can see Hiram's grasp tighten protectively about Rachel's shoulders as hues of red intensify in his eyes and turn to steel. "Her parents kicked her out the other day… she doesn't have anywhere else to go."

"And why was _Quinn Fabray_," Hiram spits your name as if it is acid, you tremble in fear and guilt, "kicked out of her _holy_, _righteous_ home?"

"Because she's going to have a baby, Hiram," Joshua's voice breaks the stern atmosphere.

You watch as Hiram's features morph from vindictive to pitying. Those eyes don't lose their edge, though. No, instead they seem to focus rather heavily on your eyes.

"What are your intensions, Miss Fabray?" the tone of the doctor's voice is sharp, cutting. "Why did you come to our home? What are your circumstances?"

"_Papa_," Rachel hissed, tugging on her father's blindingly white lab coat.

"It's okay, Rachel," you whisper, looking down at the floor, "he has a right to know."

You put your hands on your knees, staring up into Mr. Berry's eyes with a fierce sort of determination. It's a type of confidence that used to grace your persona every time you spoke with Coach Sylvester or the parent of one of the Cheerios.

"The baby's father spiked some alcohol at a party and got me drunk, sir," you say this easily, as you've had to explain it _so_ many times, the venom of the words no longer feels effective to your experienced veins. "My parents found out, so they kicked me out… I couldn't stay with my ex-boyfriend, and none of the people in Glee Club treat me with any sort of kindness… none of the people…"

Your eyes flicker over to the singer with a soft small on your cheeks. "None of them except Rachel… she was really… the only one I could turn to."

"I know that I've been cruel to Rachel in the past," you laugh bitterly, tears falling down your cheers as you swallow and continue. "God, I've been so cruel that I can hardly believe I did any of those things. But I promise you that I will **never** lay a hand on Rachel again."

"She's been kind to me… she's the only one that doesn't—pardon my language, sir—bullshit me in any way. I just want to make up for the past sir… But I have nowhere to go."

Your eyes drop as you whisper. "…I really… have nowhere to go."

Hiram's gaze never leaves you. You can feel it burning into you, watching everything that's happening. And for a moment, you think that you're just going to find yourself out on the street again. Sitting on the curb, waiting for someone to take you in with a strange assortment of boxes around you.

But soon, Hiram speaks again, his voice soft against your ears. "…You are welcome here then, Quinn Fabray."

You look abruptly up, to see a ghost of a smile on the man's serious face. Disbelief fills every nerve.

"B-but sir," you sputter.

"You're forgiven, as long as you are genuinely sorry… and it seems you are," the man pauses a moment, before turning to Joshua with somewhat of a scowl on his face. "I see you've been in _another_ fight, Joshua? What have I told you about keeping your hands clean?"

Joshua grins, wincing as the scab on his lip stretches. "Oh, you know that I've never been one for listening to my elders."

"Well," Hiram rolls up his sleeves, "it appears that once more, I am forced to care for you. And I will not make it easy, Mr. Bayani. You're going to wish that you hadn't had your face busted in."

"It's worth it to mess up a punk's face," Joshua hisses as Hiram presses a hand to his bruised cheek. "It's what a son of a bitch who slaps pregnant girls around gets."

Hiram's hands freeze and the slight smile on his lips straightens into a firm line. "…Rachel, you never told me the whole story, what happened?"

"Papa, it's oka-."

"Tell me what happened, Rachel!" Hiram's voice has dropped down several pitches as thunderous features turn upon his daughter, a hint of pleading wrought into every note.

Rachel sighs. "…Quinn's ex came over, forced his way into the house… And he had a bit of a temper tantrum… he attacked Joshua and punched Quinn."

Hiram's hands clench and shake, his glasses steaming up and his face reddening. It might've been comical, if the little man didn't seem in such a fit of rage.

"I take it you took care of him, _kochav_?" the words are spoken in soft staccato.

"Yes, Papa," Rachel's voice crawls to a whisper.

"…His name, sweetheart?"

"…Hudson. Finn Hudson."

A shaky hand takes off the little round pair of glasses, wiping them down as the doctor inhales deeply several times, eyes closed in an attempt to remain calm.

Soon, though, the frames are returned to Hiram's face and he is once again observing Joshua's face.

"Rachel, go get the medical kit… and then I want you to call your Daddy. Tell him that I want him home," Hiram tilts Joshua's jaw up, glasses glinting in the fluorescents. "Now."

So Rachel turns away, and runs up the stairs to do as commanded.

And Hiram?

Hiram does nothing but continue to work, lips caught in that somber, tight line.

It frightens you.

* * *

><p>Some hours ago, Hiram treated Joshua's wounds, including some stitches across the singer's split lip and a healthy dose of peroxide across his knuckles. He settled the boy on the coach before administering a good amount of painkiller (Joshua fell asleep almost immediately after, so you assumed it had to be something pretty potent).<p>

Hiram then looked at your nose, declaring you in perfect shape, though giving you two ibuprofen tablets for the heavy throbbing.

As the man washed his hands, he studied you, tilting his head down, observing the way you refused to meet his eyes. He took a glass out from one of the cabinets, filled it with water, and set it down on the table, before sitting down across from you, reading the newspaper silently.

There had been a heavy slamming of a door as a deep, booming voice, filled to the brim with rage, called Hiram's name.

At this, the short man had gotten up, placed a hand on your shoulder and smiled tentatively, his voice low. "If you want to find her, she's probably in the gym... through the living room, down the stairs."

With that, he ghosted from the kitchen, polished shoes clacking as he made his way up the stairs, leaving you alone with a comatose Joshua snoring rather shamelessly on the couch.

And that's how you found yourself in front of this painted, mahogany door, listening to the sound of Rachel's yelling through the wood.

You've been standing here for some time, unable to enter. Every time you put your hand to the doorknob, there's a shock of hesitancy that rises fresh in your blood, and it makes you a bit scared.

There had been something earlier. Something in that moment when Rachel touched you, when you looked at her.

There were so many feelings that made you hazy, delirious. But it's not the inebriated pull of alcohol or whatever substance that Puck used to put you out.

There's a delicious warmth in the drug that Rachel Berry injects into your veins each time she touches you. It makes you feel light and happier than you've ever felt. You're growing more addicted to it, the more time you are exposed to it.

You're scared of it though. Because you've never felt so strongly about someone before. You've never **wanted** anyone like you've wanted Rachel. And the intensity of the want scares you, because you're only sixteen.

But Santana told you to act. Because if you want something you have to go for it.

And who knows when someone else will come along and snatch Rachel up? If there was someone—anyone—that Rachel could come to trust as she trusted Joshua, yet see in a more romantic manner, Rachel would take him/her (you don't even know if Rachel is gay!) as a significant other. And where would that leave you standing?

That would leave you with absolutely **nothing. **It'd leave you with heartache and resentment toward whoever that person would be and toward Rachel.

That scares you too. The fact that you have the potential to go from loving to hating Rachel. Rachel, the kindest soul in the world… the one who has shown you nothing but kindness. You could hate her if she were to belong to someone else.

But you could hate her if she turns you down as well.

It's a double-edged sword. A risk that you're not quite sure that you want to take. Because Rachel is so precious to you. You don't think that you could bear her resenting you or avoiding you.

You reach a hand out, still lost in your thoughts, and turn the brass knob adorning the door.

The gym is painted an off-white, the floor covered in thick and heavy blue padding. Weight machines, a treadmill, an elliptical, and several sets of bags litter the area.

In the corner of the room, clad in a white tank and black shorts, Rachel pounds away at a black leather heavy bag, tiny little hands taped up in silver.

For the first time, you notice how finely muscled Rachel is. Her arms are toned, skin pulled tight against lean, powerful muscle. Each of the girl's magnificently long legs move in conjunction to create an impressive display of footwork. You can see the muscles slide past each other, bulge under the strain of the blows.

Rachel moves gracefully. A punch delivered with the smooth ease of a dancer as she weaves side to side, hands guarding her face, kicks sending the bag flying in multiple directions.

You stand there, watching Rachel train, awed by the utter artistry of every movement she makes.

Who knew that fighting could be beautiful? Could have a purpose besides inflicting harm?

Then again, Rachel Berry makes everything have a purpose. It's part of what makes her so damn special.

You walk a little closer, just to give Rachel a little bit of a surprise. Maybe give her a little tap on the shoulder, just as a tiny joke. After all, Rachel's messed with you mentally the past few weeks. It's only fair that you pay her back a little.

You stretch your arm out, about to give Rachel a nice little jolt on the shoulder, when petite hands grasp your own, your center of balance thrown off kilter. You find yourself sailing over a muscular shoulder, flying through the air and down towards the mat.

You see brown eyes flash in worry, and then there's suddenly a body beneath you, arms stretched out.

You fall softly into Rachel's chest, clasped into a pair of toned arms and panting heavily with alarm.

"Sorry about that, Quinn," the diva says, smiling apologetically, getting up from the floor and pulling you up. Your arm grazes a hard, tensed leg, feeling the rough muscle beneath a layer of sinfully soft skin (your mouth is suddenly dry again). "I react to the smallest stimuli… it's not safe to play little jokes on me."

"I-It's okay," your eyes fall to a small drop of sweat making its way down Rachel's heaving chest, right down to a rare glimpse of Rachel's cleavage.

"…Quinn?"

Your eyes snap back up to the singer, who is currently leaning towards you, hands on her hips, eyebrow raised in question. Your face goes to a bright red, because now you can see the subtle hues of crimson in those brown eyes.

"Y-yes?"

"You're okay, right?" The singer's eyes flicker down to your swollen stomach. "…Is the **baby** okay?"

Your eyes widen. Rachel saved you from that fall. She protected you AND your baby with her own body once again.

It's not the first time Rachel Berry has given up her physical well-being to help you, you realize. She's stood up against six foot tall jocks (Rachel has to ONLY be around five feet tall, at the most), took down Finn, and literally let you FALL on top of her to shield you from the brunt force of the fall.

It makes your heart flutter.

"Yeah," you swallow, "Yeah, it's okay."

Rachel's brow furrows for a moment, and you look on in confusion. "It? …You don't know the gender?"

You shake your head.

Rachel's eyes light up slightly as she makes a fist, pounding it to a flat hand. "Oh! You want it to be a surprise?"

Again, your cheeks flare up in a blush as you mutter, head down.

"What did you say?" Rachel's brows furrow again. "You need to speak up if you want me to understand, Quinn."

"I haven't gone to the doctor yet," you close your eyes, preparing for the oncoming onslaught.

And indeed, it comes in the form of a familiar, indignant squeak.

"WHAT?" Rachel's eyes flash. "You've neglected pre-natal care, Quinn Fabray? What if your child has Tay Sachs due to its Jewish heritage? What if it has some sort of syndrome which must be dealt with?"

"How irresponsible!"

"I didn't have enough money without asking my parents," you hiss. "And we can all see how THAT went." You throw your arms up in the air in exasperation.

"Finn or Noah didn't take you?" her eyes widen in surprise.

"Finn couldn't hold down a damn job and I don't want Puck's charity," you cross your arms. "I'd rather not get any money from that damn womanizer…"

Rachel softens before her stance straightens in determination. "Well… my Dads and I will get you an appointment."

You open your mouth to protest before Rachel holds up a hand to silence you.

"You need the help, Quinn. Your BABY needs it," Rachel lowers her arm. "You can pay us back when you're more at liberty, if it makes you feel any better. But a Berry doesn't leave a friend in need. Between my Dads' jobs, we have MORE than enough money to help you. So please… just take the money?"

That voice is desperate, pleading. It makes you into a pile of goo, and you can't help but yield. God, who could **help** but yield to Rachel?

"…Friends?" you question, voice low.

Rachel nods softly, a light dusting of red painting her cheeks. "Yes… friends. I really care about you, Quinn. And I really _want _us to be friends. A-at least I'd like us to be… Is that objectionable?"

Jesus, Rachel Berry is adorable. The way she looks at you from beneath those full lashes, curling a lock of hair behind her ear and with that adorable blush on her cheeks.

You smile. "Sure, we can be friends… on one condition."

Rachel nods so hard it looks like her head could fall off, and it makes you laugh. "S-sure."

"You," you link hands with her, "go with me to my first appointment...? I could really use a friend there, you know."

And Rachel's Broadway grin comes out in all its dazzling glory. "Of course! I'd be more than happy to."

Those arms are around your middle, locking you in a fierce hug. You stand there for a moment, stunned, before hesitantly putting your arms around her.

You inhale deeply, reveling in Rachel's spicy scent, made more intense by her workout. You press a kiss to her forehead, rocking on your heels, closing lids over hazels, savoring the moment.

"Rachel…"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

You feel her smile into your shoulder, tightening her grasp. "Sure, that's what friends are for, right?"

That statement sends a slight sting to your heart, but you don't flinch. You simply tighten your grasp, burying your face further into wavy brown curls.

"…Sure… friends."

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><p><strong>AN:** I hope this chapter was worth your wait :). Kochav, Hiram's little nickname for Rachel, means 'star.' If you have any questions you'd like to ask, leave 'em in your reviews. Remember, only rule: nothing too personal or offensive. Thanks for the support, and leave a **review**, as I always love to hear from readers :)


	9. Support

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee or any of its characters or Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong's amazing song (though I do own Joshua Bayani).

**A/N:** I want to give Quinn a little bit of a break, so I thought that I'd insert some tender moments into this chapter. Many thanks to **kingcyrus, d80p, Denethion, w1cked, Musicmakesmehigh, Cassicio, jupiter01, Stessa, grangergirl22, ms-rappy-sleeper, RandomOtakuFromTumblr, suspenceme, SoFlaComet, midnightprincess28, XxwhisperingxX, ananapooh, diamondplatypus, sugarspiceandnotsonice, ashdo, **and **Ms. Geek** for their amazing reviews and support. I REALLY couldn't do it without any of you. And, as promised, I'll answer the questions people asked last chapter :) **Cassicio:** _Hey there! I'm thankful for your support. Thanks for everything! I came up with the idea for this story watching season one of Glee in 2009. I began to doubt the writing a little thinking '…this really isn't plausible?' or '…why hasn't this been addressed?' or 'would Rachel really act that way?' I felt that Rachel's character was weakened a bit over the course of the season, the more she pined over Finn… and then I noticed tiny little things that __**really**__ didn't fit in between Quinn and Rachel (drawing a picture of Rachel and surrounding it with __**hearts**__, Quinn, really?) so I thought of alternate ways to season one. When I first came to this fandom after quitting my other, I __**knew**__ I had to write this story, even if it was just like the usual 'Rachel takes care of a pregnant Quinn story,' but I wanted my Rachel to be more independent. The idea for __**this**__ Rachel came from a mixture of myself (I'm a very sarcastic, humorous person, a trained martial artist—Rachel's defeat of large, muscle bound men=real situations I've face many times), my closest friend (a mellow, amazing, kind, honest singer with amazing guitar skills and a multi-faceted personality), and the original Rachel Berry (confident, boisterous, kind, and chatty). Joshua Bayani is, quite literally, a living, breathing human being under a much different name, minus the incredibly silky voice. He's a sort of dedication to a friend that I haven't seen in many, many years._ **diamondplatypus: **_Hello, and thank you for the support. The idea for this story came from watching season one of Glee in 2009. I didn't like the storyline, so I began mental rearrangements of the story. Then I noticed the weird Quinn/Rachel interaction (Quinn's millions of hearts drawing on a picture of __**Rachel**__ who she's supposed to hate) and Glee just became totally different. When I came over to this fandom after quitting my other one, I began to wonder whether or not to post this story… then I did, and it became __**Denial.**_Thank you to everyone who reviewed, please **leave a review**, as they do help me write quicker :)

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><p>Chapter 9: Support<p>

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><p>You spend the rest of the day at the Berry house, curled up in the blankets, nose throbbing violently as you attempt to sleep through the rest of the day.<p>

But your mind won't be still. It wanders endlessly through the events of the day. From Finn's break in, to the fight, to those few tender moments that you spent with Rachel in the gym.

She had been so kind, so soft. One of the most selfless beings you'd ever met. You were friends, yet there was something so much more beneath those few lingering touches she laid upon you.

A deep, aged mixture of emotions that you can't give a name to. It's not denial, of that you're sure. Denial makes its victim plummet into depression and tears them apart within. And indeed, denial has made fine work of you for the past two months.

But this strange solution is something unknown. It rebuilds, and it gives rather than takes. It's a concept that's entirely foreign to you, because you're used to giving everything in a relationship.

You _gave_ Finn popularity, a pretty face to hang to. You _gave_ Puck your body and this baby, which feeds like a parasite on your body. You _gave_ your parents the perfect daughter for the years that they raised you. You were the pretty face, the daughter that they could boast about and show off as the perfect gem atop their self-righteous crown.

But Rachel gives to you without trying. She doesn't give material objects, like those half-wilted flowers that Finn gave you, or the empty promises that Puck whispered into your ear that day in the hall.

She gives through her smiles and words. Through each song that she sings and through each look she casts in your direction. It's a silent giving. Giving in tiny little packages. But the gifts are so much better.

They heal your psyche. They take each shattered piece of your self-worth and start to flawlessly re-stitch them into whoever this new person is.

Rachel is so honest and kind. She makes you want to _try_ to be better. For her.

Several hours later, a soft knock sounds on the wood of your door, jolting you from your thoughts and sending you sitting straight up in bed.

"C-come in," you call shakily, fixing your hair and pulling the large sweatshirt (Rachel had given you a change of clothes after the two of you left the gym earlier) farther up your shoulder to appear at least half-decent.

The brass knob gives a slow turn, and a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular looking black man walks through the door, thin lips set in a stern line and gray eyes looking down upon you. His lean frame is clothed in a fine button down Armani shirt and a silky blue tie, along with a pair of expensive-looking slacks.

Behind him, Hiram steps through, slowly shutting the door behind him.

"Quinn Fabray?" a rich, deep baritone sends a series of chills down your back as the man steps toward you, shiny black Allen Edmonds tapping against the floor.

"Mr. Berry!" the dots connect as you attempt to scramble from the bed to at least _shake_ Leroy Berry's hand so that you can appear to be the civilized human being you are.

But the man will have none of it, a large hand (about two times the size of your own) covers your shoulder and pushes you gently back into the bed, before slipping down to hover before you in offering.

"Relax, Miss Fabray," that booming voice chuckles, "this isn't the inquisition… My husband informs me you've had a bit of a tough day, so it's best you stay where you are. It's a pleasure to meet you, regardless of the situation."

You take the hand, shaking it firmly in your own, looking up at the warmth in those startlingly silver orbs, and again, you're hit by the similarities between Rachel and (this time) her Father.

Because that massive hand, which could undoubtedly crush yours without effort, is soft and gentle. It's so contrary to the way that most men would touch you, and it sends pleasant warmth through your whole system. Relaxes you.

Leroy Berry, with his giant figure, reminds you of Rachel with the gentleness in his eyes and touch (though it fails to elicit the same electricity that Rachel elicits in you).

As he lets you go, he motions to the wooden chair pulled up to your bedside (Hiram had come in several times already to administer some medication to help the swelling go down) with a faint smile.

"May I have a seat?"

"Of course, Mr. Berry," you pause, pulling at the bedcovers. "You shouldn't ask though… it _is_ your house. I'm a guest."

"It's your room though," he responds easily, sitting down, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. There's a thoughtful expression on his face before he adds, gently. "Call me Leroy, Sweetheart. I'm not Mr. Berry outside the office."

"O-okay," you whisper, hazels looking down at the bedspread.

For a moment, you feel Leroy study you, just as Hiram did. It appears to be a Berry family trait to observe every little feature of a person's face. Maybe that's how they judge character? You're not sure, but you've never been able to get anything past Rachel.

It's scary how in sync Rachel is with everything you're feeling, now that you think about it. The day in the choir room, she knew exactly what to say. Today, she knew exactly how to respond… what you needed to hear and feel.

"We have a couple of things to talk about, Quinn," Leroy's voice is gentle against your ears. "The most important thing right now is this: do you have anywhere to stay?"

You bite your lip. "I can't stay with my ex-boyfriend anymore… and I can't stay with the baby's Daddy. I can try to call some-."

"You'll stay with us," he says so abruptly in makes your eyes widen.

"W-what?" you can hardly believe what he's just said. "Y-you're already paying for Doctor's bills, I can't let you-."

"Quinn, look at my clothing," he gestures down to his hand-tailored shirt and fine shoes, "does it really look like I don't have any money to spare?"

He leans forward and takes your hand. "The most important thing for _you _to worry about right now is the little one. You're going to need somewhere to stay without stress and the teenage angst that I know many high schoolers exude on a daily basis."

He smirks. "I would know, I'm father to one of the most high-maintenance children in all of Lima, Ohio."

There's a bark of laughter from behind Leroy. Hiram's trying in vain to hold back a gale of laughter threatening to rip forth from his mouth. His face turns red under the feat. You can see him mutter something under the lines of '_what an understatement_' as he falls against the door.

"And as to the matter of the doctor," Leroy continues, throwing a bit of an amused glance back at his husband, "Hiram's set up an appointment for you tomorrow. He told one of his colleagues about your case. Doctor Younes has a day off, but he's agreed to see you… unless you're feeling a bit under the weather?"

"No, no," you shake your head rapidly, "the sooner the better, right? I haven't had the money to get an appointment, and I know how important it is."

"Do you have someone to go with you? One of us could, if need be."

"Rachel said she'd take me," you say, warmth filling every little recess of your heart as you recall the scene from today.

"She did, did she?" the grin on Leroy's face is nearly identical to the glorious Broadway smile that Rachel flashes at you. "That's my little star."

Hiram's throat clearing makes the large man jolt from his obvious adoration for his daughter as the man gathers himself, taking on a more serious face, tightening his grip ever so slightly on your hand.

"Before I speak to anyone, I'd like to ask you something rather seriously, Quinn," Leroy shifts closer, gray eyes flashing with some sort of contempt. "Would you like me to take drastic legal action against Finn Hudson?"

You freeze. Instantly, you want to say 'no,' because even though Finn went and lashed out _before_ he even found out that the baby wasn't his, you don't want to ruin his life.

But then you think, _really_ think. He attacked Joshua and nearly broke something… could've _killed_ him, had Rachel not stopped him. It wasn't provoked. It was a **clear** attempt at your life. You wonder what would've happened had Joshua and Rachel _not_ been there to defend you… Would _you_ be dead right now? Would the _baby_ be dead?

"…How 'drastic' would it be?" you inquire softly.

"I'd serve him papers for assault on four counts," Leroy says, eyes flashing. "He'd go to jail and pay a fine. We could get some restraining order papers and you'd never hear from him again."

"…Can we get community service instead of jail?" you ask hesitantly. You see the surprise on Leroy's face and hurry to explain. "He's still in High School… I don't want to ruin any chances for him. I-It's kind of my fault he reacted so violent-."

"No matter the lie, Quinn," Leroy interrupts, "it's still wrong to seek to harm a pregnant woman and her friends."

You feel shock thread through your system as Leroy chuckles.

"Rachel told me," he explains, leaning back in the chair and letting go of your hand. "It's not her fault. I forced it out of her earlier. Don't be upset with her."

"No, it's alright," you reply quickly. And truly, it is. The Berrys are doing so much for you. A little digging into your past isn't something major for people who are doing so much for you. Especially since everything will be laid out on the table on Jacob Ben Israel's blog by Monday (Finn's probably texted the news to all the Glee clubbers by now, which means that Kurt and Mercedes are probably having a field day).

"But still," you continue, continuing on the subject, "I don't want to ruin his chances… I think he needs to do some time, but I'd rather have him doing community service than rotting away in a jail cell. He shouldn't be robbed of any chances… and the Glee club needs him to compete."

"And if he tries to hurt you again?" Leroy crosses his arms, waiting.

"Rachel's my friend," you reply. "And I think she could kick Finn's ass if she _really_ wanted to… I _know_ she's strong enough to bust Finn's face in."

"She'd probably have done it, too," Hiram chuckles from the door. A melancholy shadow falls over his features just as suddenly as he murmurs so softly, you almost miss it. "_…If she could have_."

Leroy remains quiet, his chin resting on his closed fist as stormy gray orbs look at you intensely for several moments. "You're sure about this, Quinn?"

You nod without hesitation. "Very sure."

He sits there a few more minutes before resting a hand on your knee, rubbing it lightly as sternness gives way to warmth. "Alright then… I'll get the paperwork down. I'll leave you right now, since you could probably use some sleep."

The tall man gets to his feet groaning and stretching comically, making you giggle. "I know I need it."

He puts a hand to his husband's shoulder, smiling fondly at you, before turning the brass knob and exiting the room.

You sigh and close your eyes as soon as the door gives that last click, slumping back into the bed.

Today has been a long day. Everything that's happened feels like it's been right out of a soap opera. It's surreal and hellish… It's your reality, and it's not a happy one.

You're a teenaged, pregnant teen in the middle of frickin' Ohio without money or a home, who slept with her boyfriend's best friend, lied to him about the baby, then dumped him in the same day whilst during the entire process you've had a huge, gay scare/crush on the girl whose family has now taken you in.

You sigh. Of course, these things only happen to Quinn Fucking Fabray.

But at least you have a semi-happy living situation now. You don't have to deal with the burning guilt that you confronted every damn day Finn kisses you on the cheek (or the revulsion of even KISSING Finn's stubbly surrounded, chapped, foul tasting mouth). You have a roof over your head, a bed to sleep on, food, and at least **two** good friends (you'd like to think of Joshua as a friend, at least).

'_It'll be okay,_' Rachel had once said to you that day in the choir room as she held you close to her chest and comforted you. '_I promise __**everything**__ is going to be okay.'_

Rachel Berry kept her promise. She said everything was going to be okay.

And it is.

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><p>"Come on, Quinn, get up!" An amazingly annoyed voice hisses into your ear, pulling the blankets up and off. "You have an appointment that <em>you<em> can't be late for!"

Your teeth chatter as you're exposed to the cold air, but you just ignore it, groaning and grabbing the pillow next to your head, unwilling to even **try** to get out of bed. You're so tired, you deserve a little bit more sleep.

"Quinn Fabray, you'd better get up," there's a faint dip in the bed as someone sits right next to you. "I'll give you five seconds before I'm forced to take action."

"Five." You turn over, pushing the pillow over your head.

"Four." Grab the headboard in preparation for any sort of fight.

"Three…" Give a sizeable yawn and nuzzle into the soft surface of the mattress.

"Two…" Start to drift off.

"Okay, don't say I didn't warn youuuu," the person drags the syllable out as the bed shifts once more. You brace yourself, thinking that whoever the hell it is that's trying to pull you from sleep is going to pull you from bed (Frannie—your _perfect_ older sister—pulled that one on you whenever you didn't wake up for church during elementary school), only to be shocked when slender fingers attack your sides.

You shriek, kicking out your arms and legs as you laugh, trying to get your assailant up and off you. You grab at the air, try to pull the wiggling digits off your sides, but everything that you try is in vain, because the damned attacker is avoiding you.

"S-Stop!" you shout, gasping for air. Your chest is really starting to hurt from all the laughter. But the assailant doesn't stop, a rich peal of melodious laughter reaching your ears and sending tremors up your spine (you're pretty sure it's not from the psychotic laughter that your tormenter is inflicting upon you).

Rachel.

"You should've just gotten up the first time I asked!" the brunette growls playfully (you can just **see** that shit-eating, sexy smirk of hers form on those amazing lips). "So I'm not going to stop until you apologize for ignoring me!"

"I-I'm s-sorry!" you gasp, another round of laughter leaving your lips as you struggle to speak. "I-I'm r-really, r-really s-sorry!"

"That's really not good enough, Quinn," you want to kill Rachel, because she's got that smug, sarcastic tone in her voice. "I'm a _grand_ performer. I'm not used to being ignored. So it'd better be much, much more elaborate than that."

"I-I'm s-sorry," you can feel your cheeks turn red and tears trail down your cheeks as the diva redoubles her tickling efforts, attacking your sides more harshly. "I-I'm s-sorry th-that I-I i-ignored y-you, R-Rachellllllllll!"

You hear a dramatic sigh, and then you're on your side, chest heaving, still feeling a sort of phantom tingle against your sides.

"It wasn't any better," the bed dips as Rachel gets to her feet, "but I figure I'd better let you breathe before you die."

You sit up in bed, before looking over to try to scold Rachel for her little tickle attack, before your mouth goes dry (that seems to be happening a lot lately), your eyes widen, and everything that you were going to say has flown out the window.

Rachel's standing there, eyebrow quirked and that smug smirk (you knew it) painted across her lips. But that's not the thing that caught your damn attention, struck you dumb, and made you forget ten fucking years of vocabulary.

It's what Rachel's wearing… or to be precise, the lack thereof.

Rachel's wearing a black Under Armour Sports bra that hugs an ample amount of cleavage (who knew that Rachel Berry had a **chest** underneath those hideous sweaters), exposing a set of chiseled, tan abs to your greedy eyes. Your dry mouth instantly begins to water, and your fingers start to twitch as you reign in the desire to just reach out, grab Rachel, and _lick_ the crease between each muscle.

And if that weren't a damn curse already, the diva's wearing a pair of matching gym shorts that reveal those deliciously toned legs for your perverted viewing pleasure.

The diva's wavy hair is up in a ponytail, displaying that sinfully slim neck that you just want to nip, bite, and mark as your own.

Who knew that fucking Rachel Berry had a **body** underneath all of those bulky sweaters and preppy shirts? A **body** that was as cut as yours before the **damn** pregnancy and a set of abs that any of the Cheerios (Santana included) would **pay** to have?

God has to hate you… He really **must** if he keeps doing this to you.

"Quinn?" your gaze automatically flickers back to Rachel's concerned face as she frowns. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah," you swallow heavily. God, your eyes must be fucking **black** by now. "U-uhm… H-how much longer till we have to go?"

Rachel looks down at the thick black watch on her wrist, licking her chapped lips (she _had_ to have gone jogging) as she mouths the numbers, counting the time. "10:30. You've got thirty minutes."

"Shit!" you hiss, shocked out of your Rachel-induced stupor as you clamor from bed and run over to one of the numerous boxes, sorting through the clothes. "You didn't think to get me up earlier?"

"I tried," you hear her explain casually, "and it failed. It's your fault for being a sleep hog."

"Whatever, Berry!" you mumble, pulling out one of your numerous baby doll dresses, and then searching around for a nice headband and cardigan to go with it. "Just go put on some decent clothes and get in the goddamn car."

"Now now, Quinn," the damn girl tsks, "you're not being a very good little Catholic girl. Never take the name of the Lord in Vain… and I am dressed. There are no vital parts of me exposed, therefore I am clad in accordance with the laws of our society."

"Put on something that isn't sweat soaked and doesn't smell like b.o., Berry," you almost shout, rushing into the bathroom (to put some distance between you and that tantalizing body as well as to get ready). "I can't have you disgracing me, I'm Quinn Fabray, remember?"

You hear a chuckle as the diva trots out of the room, but not before saying one last thing.

"Prude."

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><p>You run downstairs a good fifteen minutes later to find Joshua sitting at the counter, slowly spooning Mini Wheats to his mouth with a wince across his handsome features. He's got a fairly nice black eye, and a trail of purple bruising extending from the top of his white shirt (probably a Hiram loan) to the fist shaped dotting on his cheeks.<p>

He spares you a faint smile, grimacing as the scab on his lip strains against the movement. A cloud of guilt builds in your stomach as you watch him turn slowly in his seat to face you, intent on not aggravating the wounds no doubt heavy underneath his clothing.

"Hey you," that cool voice greets as blue orbs beam despite their sorry state. "Feelin' okay?"

The casual way that Joshua greets you surprises you a bit. You've known him for less than a day and he's already defended you, taken hits for you, and now he's saying hello to you in the morning? A few months ago, he was frowning disapprovingly at you in the hallways of McKinley High and defending Rachel from your verbal jousts.

Any **normal** person would've given you shit about the baby and used your sorry state of homelessness to their advantage to throw a vicious emotional beating.

Then again, no one that knows Rachel is normal. **Especially** not Joshua Bayani.

"I'm doing fine," you return that unspoken grin in his eyes. "My nose is a little sore… but I'm fine. And you-."

"Look like shit," the singer replies cheerfully. "And I really feel like shit, but that's okay. Nothing a bit of Percocet and some bed rest can't heal."

Again, guilt floods your every pore. "I'm so-."

"Sorry?" Another thing about everyone that Rachel knows? They're all so **damn** intuitive. "Don't be. You didn't mess my face up, and at least **you're** safe, so don't apologize. I hate when people make me seem like a martyr when all I did was take a few punches and throw some back."

The boy looks over the counter, grabs a paper bag, and then presses it into your hands. "Hiram kinda knew that you'd oversleep, so he packed you a bagel and some crackers to eat on the road. Rachel's waiting outside in the car, and you'd better get out there pretty quick. If she's sitting in the driveway for more than ten minutes, she's going to get pissed and you're gonna see the worst case of road rage ever."

"Are you going to-."

"Be alright?" You wish he'd let you finish a sentence for once. "Yeah. I'm going to lie down and watch some trashy reality TV high on expensive drugs with a bunch of soda. I'll be PERFECTLY fine. But you **won't** be if you don't get your ass out the door and in the car before Rachel starts pulling the horn."

He laughs at your bewildered expression. "Quinn… that is your name, right? If you're going to be friends with people as dumb and weird as us, you're gonna have to get used to a little bit of cussing here and there. We censor **nothing** in this house. Now **go**, trust me, if you want to reach the office alive."

You hesitate a moment before walking up to Joshua, pressing a kiss gently to his unmarred temple, muttering a quick 'thank you', and walking out the door.

True to form, Rachel's sitting in a sleek black Hyundai Sonata, tapping at the wheel impatiently, mouthing something under her breath (you're sure you can see the phrase '_fucking __**late**__' _pass her lips several times, much to your amusement) and staring at what you're sure is the clock.

This time, the little diva's actually wearing clothes, although they're not the usual animal sweater/short skirt combo. You can see a green plaid shirt and a blue v-necked t-shirt along with a pair of tight jeans from your place by the door.

You walk over to the other side of the car, opening the door and slamming it shut, fighting back the giggle in your throat as Rachel literally _jumps_ in her seat in shock.

"Jesus Christ, Quinn," the diva's hand goes over her heart as she breathes heavily, "you _really_ need to learn not to surprise me... And learn how to be on **time** for things."

"Says the girl who told **me** not to take the name of the Lord in vain," you snort. "I wasn't aware that we were on any sort of schedule, by the way."

"Well we are," Rachel says, looking over her shoulder and slowly backing out of the driveway and setting off down the street. There's a faint smirk that crosses the diva's lips as she turns the first corner. "And I'm a Jew, so I can take the name of the lord in vain as many times as I want."

"Not very tolerant of other religion's customs, are you?" you ask wryly, looking out the window at the passing rows of houses. "What a savage, Rach."

"Well, I'm a firm believer in a certain _brilliant_ philosophy," you watch a dangerous glint appear in those deep chocolate orbs. "'Tolerance is for **wimps**.'"

"Goodness, you really are a savage," you chuckle.

"An educated, brilliant, performing savage," the little diva quips. She nods down at the iPod Touch in one of the cup holders, attached to the car with an auxiliary cord. "Do me a favor and turn on some music. We need a little bit of a playlist for our epic little discussions."

You can't help the fit of laughter that leaves your lips. My God, who the heck is **this** Rachel? There's _another_ facet to this amazing, mysterious person, and all the dots are starting to connect with each new aspect that reveals itself to you. Is this the Rachel that Joshua hangs around with? That's hiding just below the surface?

"My God, Rachel Berry has more than the Essential Barbra Streisand on her iPod?" Your jaw drops as you see dozens of playlists, arranged by genre. "It's a **miracle**."

"Hey!" the diva yelps, face reddening. "I'll have you know that I appreciate all forms of music… except rap." Her features crinkle and a tongue makes its way from her mouth to show disgust. "I absolutely _loathe _rap music."

"Wouldn't know it from how in the zone you were in that Salt-N-Pepa song in Glee," you state slyly, remembering the raunchy choreography that the original club members performed your first day in the club (it made you want to **kill** Finn because of the way he was grinding up against Rachel—though in your denial, you thought that you had been furious at _Rachel_ for the mishap).

"Artie's pick, not mine," Rachel amends. There's a brief pause as there's a quick piano entry, a grin spreading across her face. "You like Ella Fitzgerald?"

"I like Jazz, so sue me," you mutter. It's something that no one's ever been able to connect with you on **any** level. Jazz is old fashioned and boring to many people, but it's what your Father would sing to you as you waltzed through the house on his fancy dress shoes when you were little.

"Ohh no, I never make fun of my fellow Jazz aficionados," Rachel says, nodding slightly, "And I _love_ this song… _Things have come to a pretty pass, our romance is growing flat… for you like this and the other, while I go for this and that…_" The diva sings lightly along with Ella, that smile still on her face. "_Goodness knows what the end will be, oh I don't know where I'm at, it looks as if we two will never be one… something must be done."_

There's a quick glance in your direction, and the next thing you know, you're singing along with a stupid grin on your face to Louis Armstrong's voice. "_You say 'ee-ther' and I say 'eye-ther!' you say 'nee-ther' and I say 'neigh-ther!' 'Ee-ther,' 'eye-ther,' 'nee-ther,' 'neigh-ther,' let's call the whole thing off!'"_

The two of you trade off, laughing at the ridiculous pronunciations and finding comfort in the easy musical banter. Your voices blend and mesh easily, forming a pleasant combination. Rachel's voice is soft and light, the antithesis to her powerful, Broadway style voice or that smoky, melancholy flavor you heard in _Jack's_ several weeks ago.

By the end of the song, both of you are grinning and everything feels right in the world.

You thought that the sting of your parents would take much longer to get over. And the hurt is still there, a slight throb in your heart, but Rachel makes it so _damn_ hard to be unhappy. There's something about the way she interacts with you, the way that she acknowledges you that makes you feel so _loved_ that you can't help but **not** think of everything you'd lost two days ago.

"I don't know about you, Quinn," Rachel's sudden statement breaks you out of your chain of thinking. "But I think that duet was amazing, and we need to do it for Glee Club."

You smile. "Sure, Rach, anything you want."

'_Really_,' you think to yourself, eyes wandering over the delicate curve of Rachel's throat (this baby is turning you into such a fucking pervert, you swear). '_Anything you want.'_

* * *

><p>Apparently there's something about needles that scares Rachel to death.<p>

Because as soon as that thin, shiny needle comes toward you, you see her face grow pale and her grasp on the arms of her chair tighten exponentially. You can see her regarding the piece of covered metal with a scowl on her beautiful face.

"Rachel Berry," you start with a smirk on your face, holding out your arm for the nurse and allowing her to tie the tourniquet, "the mighty future Broadway singer who can down lumbering jocks and crack Finn Hudson's face to pieces in seconds, is scared of a little needle?"

"It's a legitimate fear," Rachel's voice is painfully high as she looks away as the nurse preps the needle. "Papa's always been overzealous with my medications when I'm ill and I can't help the fact that a needle elicits past images of his horrifying medical practices."

"_I'm_ the one that's getting pricked," you impress upon her, "therefore you have no _reason_ to be afraid."

"Just 'shut up," Rachel squeaks. "You clearly have no clue about the intricacies of the human mind."

"…Right," you mutter.

"Miss Fabray, please change into that gown," the nurse nods over at the pale blue gown over by the window. "Doctor Younes will be in shortly."

You wait for the door to close before starting toward the hospital gown, walking over to the table in the center of the room again before reaching for the hem of your dress to pull it over your head.

"Whoaaa, Quinn," Rachel says, shaking an open palm at you, getting up, and heading toward the door. "Wait till I'm out of the room _before_ you start stripping."

One blonde eyebrow raises as you put your hands to your hips. "And where are _you_ going, Berry?"

"Outside. In the lobby," the girl answers shortly. "I'll be sitting on the benches downstairs, waiting."

Like Hell are you going to go through all of this alone!

"You're not getting off your promise that easy, Rachel," you take the girl by the shoulders and drag her back toward the chairs in the tiny office. "You're staying and you're watching."

The diva pouts, brown orbs flickering toward the door as though it were a life saver. "Quinn, I'm not sure I'm the **best** person to be in here when I have a serious medical phobia… so you might be better off without me crying hysterically at your side."

"Rach," you're about to play dirty and you feel a bit guilty about it, but it has to be done. You feel tears well up in your eyes (thank God for the acting lessons your Mom just felt you _had_ to have for Children's Theatre in Elementary school). "I-I don't h-have anyone t-to s-stay with me… And you p-promised to take me… P-please stay…?"

And that's all it takes, because Rachel's shoulders slump in defeat as you do a victory jig somewhere in your mind. The girl turns her head away, a light red dusting her cheeks as you once again pull up the hem of your dress and quickly change into the provided hospital gown.

There's a brief knock at the door as you hoist yourself up onto the table, Rachel's head turning in a flash as there's a faint moment of tenseness in her muscles before she's once again at east. It's only a split second, but it's there long enough for you to wonder _why_ she's acting that way.

"Everyone decent in there?" a woman's voice calls out from behind the wood.

A faint blush coats your cheeks (because you can only _imagine_ why the Doctor even has to _say_ such a statement before opening the door) as you give a meek 'yes,' fisting the material of the gown between your fingers.

Doctor Younes looks to be about thirty, with fiery, curly red hair that tousles around passionate green eyes that rest behind thick black square-rimmed glasses. She's professional in a teal blouse and a black pencil skirt, a clipboard resting in her hand as she regards you calmly.

The Doctor walks over to you, taking your clammy hand into her frigid one and shaking it firmly. "Miss Fabray, I'm Olivia Younes. I'll be your OB-GYN..." Green orbs fall on Rachel, sitting next to the table, observing the doctor confusedly. "Is this your partner?"

You and Rachel both sputter comically, and honestly, it'd be so damn funny if you weren't both so taken aback.

"Ms. Younes," Rachel coughs, the red staining her cheeks growing more vivid by the second, "I'm Rachel Berry… Hiram and Leroy's daughter…? I'm the friend that Mr. Hiram Berry told you would be accompanying Miss Fabray?"

"Oh Rachel!" the doctor's face instantly brightens. "I'm sorry, it's just been such a long time! The last time I saw you, you came to the hospital in that adorable little Barbra Streisand costume to go trick or treating with your Daddy!"

You choke back a laugh at the humiliated look on Rachel's face as the diva clears her throat. "Yes, um well... Right. C-can we get back to the appointment now?"

The doctor nods, shaking her head with a silly little grin on her face as she turns back to you, pushing her glasses up her nose. "So Quinn, how far along are you?"

"21 weeks," you think, counting the weeks since the party (the date is engraved in your mind, it's never far away from your thoughts).

"How're you feeling," Doctor Younes looks up from her clipboard, "physically? Tired, fatigued?"

"I get tired a bit more than usual," you answer, "and the worst of the morning sickness is gone… my back hurts a bit and my ummm…" You mutter the next words under your breath, dreading what you have to say.

"Speak up, please?" Doctor Younes asks, never glancing up from her notes.

"My chest is kinda sensitive," and now _you're_ the one blushing madly.

"It's normal," the doctor reassures. She makes a few more notes before flipping over to the next page, putting her pen to paper.

The questions continue on in the same strain for quite some time (the questions about your libido make you want to _die_). But soon enough, you're on your back, Doctor Younes spreading gel across your abdomen and Rachel sitting tentatively at your side.

Rachel gives you a small smile as she pulls your hand into hers, that faint twinkle in chocolate as brilliant as ever. "You know, this'd be the cliché moment in the film where your lover is supposed to do the whole damn 'honey, we're having a baby!' thing."

You frown. "Even when you don't try, Rach, you're still such a nerd."

"How is that nerdy? Everyone knows about it."

"Because you brought up the opportune moment for the comment and related it to film. And only Rachel Berry would do that."

"As much as I'm enjoying your little lover's spat," Doctor Younes interjects, fixed on the monitor. "I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to… your daughter, Miss Fabray."

Your attention snaps up to the monitor, and there, in the machine's grainy gray, you can see the faint outline of a tiny little hand extended forth from a small body.

There's such a rush of emotion that floods your veins. Before now, you've hated this baby. Wanted it to go away because it's a reminder of everything that you've done wrong. It's your sin and parasite… it's _Puck's_ baby, and that alone should be enough for you to hate it.

But just seeing _her_, this little baby makes you feel all sorts of things that you _shouldn't_ want to feel. There's such a surge of _love_ that rushes through your veins, it scares you how suddenly it came on.

You don't even notice the fact that you're crying until you feel Rachel's touch against your cheek, soft and warm as ever, and those wonderful eyes shining all sorts of marvelous red hues.

Rachel doesn't say anything. She just holds your hand and wipes away every tear that falls shamelessly from your eyes with that same understanding, knowing look ingrained in every little thing she does.

She doesn't say anything.

She doesn't need to.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Many thanks to all the amazing readers and all the wonderful support. Song in the chapter was '_Let's Call the Whole Thing Off'_ as sung by the wonderful Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong (I recommend you listen to it, it's an absolutely amazingly adorable duet, for all you Jazz lovers out there). Please **review**, and if anyone has anymore questions, I'd love to answer them, as long as they're not offensive or too personal :)


	10. Conversation

**A/N:** It's taken me a while to update, and I'm sorry that I haven't. Screwy internet/working on my new faberry fanfic **Just A Kiss** have taken up some time. Thanks to **skarzgurlz, ms-rappy-sleeper, Stessa,**

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><p><strong>diamondplatypus:<strong> _Joshua is a __**real**__ person, though he's got a much different name and the 'real' Joshua can't sing at all. He's a memorial to a friend that I haven't seen or talked to in YEARS._**,**

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><p><strong> nickd93, fussyviolet, SoFlaComet, sugarspiceandnotsonice, Cassicio,<strong>

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><p><strong> kingcyrus:<strong> _My friends get a kick out of listening to me because I approach every single little thing sarcastically. But yes, Leroy is based upon my father, though Hiram's kindness is much like my father's as well._**,**

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><p><strong> Musicmakesmehigh, pumpkin513, thatdamnyank, sillysah, <strong>and

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><p><strong>RandomOtakuFromTumblr:<strong> _Hello! I'll answer your questions to the best of my ability :) 1.) I believe it was the Quinn scribbling in her notebook scene that made me realize that there was something up (I remember going wide-eyed at the hearts), so I went back and watched the other episodes and I was like '…such subtext.' Thus was born my support for Faberry. 2.) I like Britanna, Puckleberry (I can't help it, Puck on the show is so kind), and TinaxMike along with Klaine. 3.) How old am I…? It's just say, I'm less than 30 :) 4.) I'm gonna leave this one blank. 5.) Yes, I __do__ listen to music while writing. I'm a musician, so music is central in my life. I listen to Billy Joel, Jazz (my absolute first love, I'm a Jazz kid at heart, and I play Jazz music in bands), and musicals (Spring Awakening, Legally Blonde, Hairspray, etc.). I love Glee's music as well…_ _I guess you could say I am VERY old fashioned. 6.) No, I don't have a tumblr, although I'm beginning to think I should get one. :) 7.) My favorite scene has to be I Feel Pretty/Unpretty and the slap scene. Such depth. 8.) I'm going to leave my name blank as well, because I have a very… long, distinct name. 9.) I found out about Glee from a friend. They told me I __**had **__to watch this new show because it was hilarious. After that episode (I believe it was 'Throwdown') I never stopped watching. 10.) I don't think RM will allow it. There's a possibility, but I don't think so. He's a bit obsessed with making Glee girls fall for the same guy, and I think Santana's the only character that will be struggling with her sexuality this season. OH, send me a link if you ever DO make some fanart! I can't draw at ALL (I got the musical genes in my family, not the art genes), so I'd __**love **__to see some of the scenes down in picture :), since I'm unable to do it myself __***frown***__ Thank YOU for reading. _for their comments. **Review** if you'd like to read more :) Enjoy

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><p>Chapter 10: Conversation<p>

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><p>You're a bit embarrassed about how you broke down in the doctor's office.<p>

It's not in you to cry so much. To _feel_ so much. Because the Fabray family prides itself on its ability to emotionally suppress every single little thing. To hide the imperfections of their _Holy_ family.

Because Russell Fabray is supposed to be the perfect Catholic family-man, not a drunk, verbally abusive brute who loves his tonic and gin a little too much. Judy Fabray is supposed to be a beautiful, doting Stepford wife, not a melancholy and broken woman that drinks away her sorrows with a bottle of Jack Daniels a day.

And Quinn Fabray is supposed to be the beautiful, popular teenage daughter. The apple of her father's eye, the pride of the family, and the _perfect_ younger sister to the **enchanting** Frannie Fabray. Not some pregnant, homeless sixteen year old statistic with **more** than platonic feelings for her once enemy.

But the shame you feel about crying is so minimal, it's practically nonexistent. Rachel makes you feel like it's okay to cry. Okay to _feel_.

With Rachel, you're free to just _exist_. You can be _Quinn_ around her, and you don't have to worry about disappointing anyone. You don't need to worry about expectations, gossiping, or anything else.

Rachel isn't judgmental, isn't one of the faceless parishioners that sit in the endless pews of your church condemning you with their stern eyes.

She holds your hand through the rest of the appointment, sitting there with that wonderful smile on her face, wiping away the tears with the callused surface of her scarred digits.

When Dr. Younes gives you numerous instructions about the things you _can_ and _can't_ do, she produces a notepad from the inside pocket of her plaid shirt, writing this and that down in quick script, nodding intently.

And when it's time for the two of you to leave, Rachel's the one to shake Dr. Younes hand as you throw a tentative 'thank-you' and a smile to the smirking Doctor.

That look unsettles you slightly, because you know that smile well. It's a knowing, bitchy smile that you or Santana throw at people when you know their dirty little secrets. You feel so uncomfortable about it, because it means the good Doctor _knows_ something, and you have fair reason to believe that you know _exactly_ what she's smiling about.

Because, as you walk out the door, Dr. Younes whispers '_don't let her get away_' into your ear and pats you on the shoulder.

You freeze in the middle of the waiting room, wide-eyed, looking back at the closing door. A series of chuckles sends unpleasant shivers down your spine. You're almost positive that they belong to her.

Rachel's already pulled to car around to the curb by the time you make it outside. You study the brunette with a smile on your face, observing the way she mouths the lyrics to the song, fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

You want to seal this moment in your mind, so you study the singer from afar. You memorize the way her hair falls so perfectly across her eyes, every crease and fold in her clothing, right down to the contented expression splayed across her features.

Because come Monday, this Rachel won't be around. She'll disappear behind the veil of Rachel Berry, obnoxious, boisterous argyle slinging, Broadway diva. You'll need to remember _this_ Rachel to get yourself through the day.

Because while Rachel 'Gold Star' Berry is supportive of every little breathing thing in McKinley High, she doesn't show special attention to **anyone** in Glee Club (except for those two times she helped you in the past).

You breathe in heavily, closing your eyes, clenching your fists. You need to remember what it was like to feel this free, this carefree. You need to live in this moment.

Because you _know_, you can _feel_ something coming around the corner. Nothing ever stays this calm for long. Nothing is ever as _perfect_ as today for an extended period of time.

But you can't stand here forever. You need to go _home_. You relish the feel of the word in your mind. _Home_. You have a _home_ now.

You step forward, opening up the car door and taking a seat as Rachel turns to face you with a somewhat annoyed scowl on her face.

"Where've you been?" she asks sourly. "I've been waiting here for at _least_ ten minutes."

"Ten minutes isn't that much time, Rachel," you dimly recall Joshua's quip about Rachel's intense road rage. "I'm a pregnant woman… I should get at _least_ ten minutes more than the average teenager to get outside."

"Pregnancy **isn't** an excuse for your tardiness, Quinn Fabray!" Rachel scowls, shifting the car into drive. "And **pregnancy**? Have you _looked_ at yourself in the mirror lately? You're hardly showing at all!"

"_You_ try getting out to the car when your ankles feel swollen," you mutter childishly, crossing your arms. And it's true. The latest unpleasant change in your body? The swelling in your ankles that makes you want to be off your feet 24/7.

It doesn't bother you _that_ much, since you're akin to extreme amounts of pain because of Cheerios practice (you've fallen so many times, and you've run so many suicides in your short 16 years of life, Coach Sylvester could be sued for child abuse). But it's enough to make you feel irritated. And irritation plus the dangerous amount of hormones in your blood equals intense frustration.

Rachel's eyes soften, and she looks at you briefly. "I'm sorry… I was being a bit immature… let me tell you what, how about I make it up to you?"

You sniffle a bit, looking at her interestedly. "And _how_ are you going to do that, Rachel Berry?"

"I'll take you for some Italian," she turns the car around a corner, before flipping a u-turn in the direction opposite from the Berry household. "Unless you're in the mood for something else?"

"No… no, Italian's good." Breadstix, no matter how crappy you think it is, sounds pretty good right about now. Which bewilders you, because you've never had a fondness for its overcooked spaghetti and flavorless sauces before.

But when Rachel parks the car, you're not at Breadstix. You're in front of a tiny little hole in the wall, simple lettering declaring '_Caravaggio's_' in dark bold letters.

It looks clean and well-kept, despite the fact that it's next door to a _gun shop_ of all things, but you're still a bit hesitant, because this part of Lima isn't known for being _particularly_ safe.

But Rachel doesn't seem alarmed, because she's already out the car's door and pulling yours open, her eyebrow quirked in amusement at your alarmed features.

"This isn't…"

"Breadstix?" Rachel supplies with a grin on across her lips. "Breadstix is a joke in comparison to this place. The family that owns it is from Northern Italy, and they make their pasta fresh each morning."

The diva pulls you up from your seat, a bolt of heat flashing across your fingers as she drags you toward the entrance.

The inside of the restaurant is painted light beige, with wooden chairs and tables arranged neatly across the marble floor.

"Giuseppe!" Rachel calls out into the back of the restaurant. "Giuseppe, where are you?"

From the kitchen door, an old man, clad in a pair of nice black slacks and a checkered shirt, bursts forth with his arms extended and a smile across his wizen face.

"Is that little Rachel Berry?" the old man booms with a heavy tenor. You watch in surprise as he seizes Rachel in his arms, giving her a hug that renders the girl breathless.

"G-Giuseppe," Rachel gasps, slowly throwing her arms around his broad shoulders. "I-I'm happy to see you t-too… but you n-need to let me down. I-I brought a f-friend to eat."

Instantaneously, the Italian man releases Rachel from his grasp, eyes turning to study you in that same, unnerving way that _many_ of Rachel's companions do. Green eyes stare intently into your hazels.

But just as soon as he studies you, you're suddenly in the same crushing embrace that Rachel received only moments ago, watching the diva chuckle amusedly over Giuseppe's shoulder.

"Easy, Giuseppe," the singer taps the old man on the back, "you don't want to crush Quinn's baby to death."

"A baby?" the Italian man looks even _more_ jovial than before. He places his hands over your swollen abdomen and bends to his knees. "Do you know the sex yet?"

"It's a little girl," Rachel provides.

And the shine in Giuseppe's bright orbs intensifies ever more as he caresses the little abdomen, cooing all sorts of things in Italian.

You look over pleadingly at Rachel, who mouths '_humor him'_ to you. You hold still, looking up at the ceiling, sighing.

You suppose you'll have to get used to this sort of treatment. You'll be showing more soon, and the natural action for most people is to aim straight for the baby bump. You can bet that the Glee club will be all over the baby girl the second your clothes start to fail you.

Eventually, Giuseppe gets to his feet, dragging Rachel over to a table by the kitchen, kissing her cheeks, and diving back into the kitchen with a faint mutter of 'cooking something healthy for baby and mother.'

"Sorry about that," Rachel pulls your chair out for you, smiling apologetically. "He _loves_ children and he's known me since I was a little girl. He treats everyone who knows _me_ like family."

"It's alright." And it is. "It's… kind of nice. I've never had anyone be so enthusiastic about the baby yet. I'm used to looking at it in a negative light."

"A baby is **never** a negative," Rachel takes a seat across from you. "The _timing_ is bad, but the baby itself? _Never _a problem."

You've never thought of it that way before. And you know that Rachel's right, she always is.

"Speaking of babies," the singer places a napkin across her lap with a flourish. "Have you thought about what you're going to do with her?"

You chew your tongue, eyes looking down at the starch white tablecloth. You've thought about it a lot. Every day since you listened to Rachel sing on MySpace. And though you've deliberated on it endlessly, you've always come to the same conclusion. "I… I'm going to put her up for adoption."

You can feel the tears build up in your eyes, and again, Rachel is leaning across the table, pulling your chin up to meet her understanding chocolate eyes.

"Hey," she whispers softly, brushing a tear off your cheek. "It's hard, I know… But I think you've got your heart in the right place. You just want her to have the best, right?"

You nod.

"Then what's bothering you?" you lean into her touch as she looks at you intently. "You know you can tell me."

You draw in a shuddering breath. Shaking as you lick your lips. You close your eyes, and you speak your mind.

"I'm afraid that she'll hate me for it."

You feel Rachel's fingers stiffen momentarily before continuing their soothing patterns across your cheeks. Your hazel orbs flicker open, and you see a sort of melancholy in Rachel's eyes. An understanding sort of melancholy.

"Quinn, I never knew my mother," Rachel says softly, drawing the tips of her fingers away and setting them on the table.

Your eyes widen as you watch Rachel draw shapes against the table, a sad smile fresh on her lips.

Rachel suddenly looks far more vulnerable than ever before. You've never seen her with such sadness tinting her features. Such openness. Rachel is always confident about everything she does, no matter how difficult the situation, nor which facet of her true self she is exposing.

But you can see that by exposing her own secrets, she's trying to make you feel better. So you listen intently as the singer opens her mouth to speak.

"My Fathers struck a contract with her… money in return for _me_," Rachel bites her lip, looking down at the floor. "She signed over _her_ parental rights to my Daddy, Leroy. And then she left Lima."

"My Dads have been _wonderful_ to me," Rachel continues, shakily fighting back the tears forming in those reddish eyes. "They've given me _everything_ I've ever wanted. Loved me more than anything else in the world… but I still wish I _knew_ my mother."

"Rachel…" you whisper.

"I don't hate her," she looks up at you. "Because I think, that even though she gave me up for money… I think she still loved me in her own way, because she gave me to the best possible parents in the world."

"The fact that she conceived for good men… I _know_ she loved me," the singer sniffles, before reaching across the table and pulling your hands into her own. "And I _know_ that _you're_ going to be sure to give your little girl the best. I saw the way you looked at her today. She'll miss you, but she's going to love you. She's going to _know_ you loved her."

Rachel's words warm you considerably. Rachel _knows_ what it's like to live without her mother. Rachel _knows_ what it'll be like for your daughter after you give her away. It makes you want to burst out in more tears, tears of relief. But you're in the middle of a goddamn restaurant, so you can't exactly do that right now.

So you settle for holding Rachel's hands and whispering 'thank you' over and over again. It takes you a few moments to compose yourselves, before Rachel gives a watery laugh, drawing her hands away from you as Giuseppe pounds out from the kitchen.

The man looks between the two of you suspiciously, before placing water before the two of you, along with a basket of steaming bread.

"What'll you be having today, girls?" he asks, hands behind his back.

"Pomodoro for me andddd…" Rachel looks at you for a moment before snapping her fingers in enlightenment. "Spaghetti amatriciana for my friend."

"Amatriciana?" you ask, brow furrowing in confusion as Giuseppe steps back into the kitchen with a hearty clanging following his arrival.

"Think of it as sauce with little bits of Italian bacon in it," Rachel grins. "I _know_ how much you love your bacon. _Especially_ with the near fatal amount you consumed at breakfast yesterday. I shudder to think how much fat went to your heart."

"Hey, hey," you snap. "It's criminal to _not_ like bacon! I can't see how you _can't_ eat any meat, it must be torture."

"Can't miss what you don't like," Rachel says cheerfully, biting down on a piece of bread. "I always thought that strips of sizzling, burnt epithelial tissue tasted too much like grease to be appetizing."

Your jaw drops. "You, Rachel Berry, are a _sinner."_

"A sinner that will live years longer than you," the singer chirrups for good measure with that shit-eating grin on her face. "Being a vegan has **numerous** health benefits."

"Such as?"

"The fact that while you are old and in a wheelchair, being a grouchy old salty woman," the diva leans back in her chair, stretching, "I will still be as fit as a fiddle, with all the stamina of a twenty year old."

"What fun is life if you don't indulge a little?" you say, grabbing a roll from the basket, moaning at the near sinful taste of it in your mouth. By God, it _is_ better than Breadstix by a **huge** margin.

"Oh, I indulge," _sure_, what was life without bacon, though? "I indulge in buying myself new sheet music and notation software. That's **my** idea of indulgence."

"I've said it once, I'll say it again," you take another hearty bite. "You're a **nerd**, Rach. A damn **nerd**."

"And _what's_ _wrong_ with being a nerd?" Rachel scowls. "**Everyone** loves a nerd. Nerds always get the girl in the end."

You nearly sputter on the water you're drinking, rapping yourself on the chest as Rachel looks at you concernedly.

"_What?"_ Rachel shrugs. "It's _true_."

"It's not that," you cough. You look around the restaurant tentatively, making sure that there's no sign of Giuseppe emerging from the kitchen. "Nerds always get the _girl_?"

Rachel's eyes widen. "Ohhhhh. That. Does it bother you?"

You frown. "Rachel, I'm living with you. In a house. With your two **gay** Dads and I'm fine. But… I just didn't think that you were… _gay._"

"Oh, I'm not," Rachel replies rather absentmindedly, reaching for her water glass.

_WHAT?_ "Well, if you're not gay, then what are you?

Rachel blinks at you, looking at you as though the answer's rather obvious. She waits a few moments before sighing and shaking her head. "Quinn Fabray, I thought you were smarter than that, where's that honor roll education?"

"Well, what else _could you be_?" you ask. Because, in your shocked mind, there's only two possible answers.

"Well, if I'm not _gay_ and I'm not _straight_, then what am I?" It sounds like a trick question, and when you don't answer, Rachel 'tsks,' rolling her eyes. "Good God, you _are_ stupid… If I'm not either, I'm bisexual, Quinn."

"…I've never actually _met_ someone bisexual," you murmur, scratching your cheek. And you haven't. You're so sheltered, it scares _you_.

"Well everything isn't black and white," the singer gesticulates. "Jeez, I thought you would be a little more **clever** than that. Aren't you _supposed_ to be our valedictorian?"

"Valedictorian doesn't mean I know everything," you point toward the crucifix about your neck. "And when you're the daughter of a devout… often overly extreme Catholic, I don't think you know much about alternate lifestyles. Especially when you're as homophobic as my parents are."

"Oh, tough upbringing?" Rachel comments casually.

"Speak one word about gays in my house and you'll get strapped down to a chair and forced to have an exorcism," you recall the day your Father screamed at you for mentioning Rachel's name. "I… wasn't allowed to participate in a lot of things because of it."

"So I've heard," Rachel muses.

You lift a brow. "Heard?"

"Let's just say that my family knows _your_ family a lot more than you think," Rachel replies. You glare at her suspiciously before Rachel adds on. "Your Dad wasn't too keen on working in the same law office as Daddy when we first moved here."

"What'd he do?" you can feel the rage starting to burn afresh in your veins.

"He made some very derogatory comments about my Fathers," Rachel says.

"Like?" you press. You **need** to know what sort of man your father is, although you can already suspect what Rachel's going to say, and it's not going to be what you've always thought of your pious, wonderful, saint of a father.

Rachel bites her lip. "Well, just… I'd rather not say them here in public."

"…Alright," you sigh. The girl has a point. The two of you have gone through a bit of an emotional roller coaster today. You _really_ need to move on to a lighter subject. This isn't the time _or_ place to talk about something like this.

"Hey Rach?" you ask after a few moments of silence.

"Hmm?" the girl hums, looking away from the window.

"Out of curiosity," you think of a good way to word the next sentence. "_Why_ don't you act like this at school? Or dress like this or-."

"Are you done asking questions?" Rachel cuts through your string of questioning with a faint smile on her lips.

You shut your jaw with a click.

"Thank you," she chuckles, before leaning back in her chair. "One question at a time, Quinn."

"Why don't I dress like this at school?" Rachel gestures down at her clothing. "I don't have enough money to replace things because of slushy stains. I get slushied daily, and at least I can get argyle for cheap."

"Why don't I act like this?" Rachel sighs. "…The first day of school, I walked into school, and I _was_ ready to be **this** Rachel. But as soon as I opened the door, I got smacked in the face with a slushy, and that was the _end_ of Rachel Berry as **you** now know me."

"No matter how many times I **tried**," Rachel taps her fingers against the table. "No matter **what** I did, nothing mattered. I'd been cast off into a group and shipped off as a loser before I knew it. Soon I was _Rachel Berry_, annoying overachiever and Broadway lover extraordinaire."

"People are quick to judge others who are different," the singer shrugged. "It's something I've dealt with my **entire** life… and it's not liable to change anytime soon."

A smile played across her lips. "At least now I've been able to use my 'other' self to help the Glee Club."

The dots begin to connect. The coy smirks that play across Rachel's face whenever the Glee Club grows frustrated. The improvements because of how _determined _everyone is to prove 'Rachel Berry' wrong for once, just to get her to shut up. They were all a part of a plan.

_Rachel's_ plan to make them the best they could possibly be.

And suddenly, Rachel Berry seems a lot smarter than you give her credit for. She's selfless to a degree you never imagined. The more you uncover about her, the more guilty you grow with each passing day.

Because Rachel never deserved the names or the slushies. Rachel never deserved the punishments the elite of McKinley passed down upon her.

And it was all _your_ fault, because _you'd_ been the one to order Rachel's first slushy. _You'd_ watched Karofsky toss it into her face, the shock heavy on her features, along with the tears that steadily trekked their way through the colored corn syrup.

You'd meant for it to be a one-time thing. Something to catch the attention of the Captain of the Cheerios so you'd be a shoe in for successor.

And it worked… except Rachel was **never** supposed to be the object of everyone's torment. It was only supposed to be that **single** time.

But one day turned to two, two to three, and soon it was the start of sophomore year, and everyone **still** loved to torment Rachel Berry.

Rachel, as though sensing your apprehension, shakes her head.

"What happened isn't _your_ fault, Quinn," the singer smiles faintly. "And if I could change it all, I wouldn't change a thing… My struggles shaped me as I am. If everything hadn't have happened the way it had, I wouldn't have Dallas or Joshua. I wouldn't _be_ Rachel."

At that precise moment, Giuseppe comes in and places two steaming plates of food before you, singing merrily, before turning back into the kitchen and shutting the door.

"What do you say?" Rachel picks up her fork, breaking the seriousness of the moment. "Let's eat."

You chuckle as you watch the girl dig into her spaghetti with relish, picking up your own fork and taking a bite of your own food.

The flavors spread across your tongue and you nearly groan at the taste. Better than Breadstix indeed.

Rachel Berry sure could ruin serious moments, but at least she had good taste in food.

* * *

><p>By the time you get home, you and Rachel are stuffed. She throws the keys on the rack, shuts the door with her foot, and proceeds to tromp up the stairs to her room to take a heavy nap.<p>

Joshua is sprawled across the couch, a bag of vegan potato chips in one arm, and a liter of soda in the other, snoring heavily with 'Jersey Shore' playing on the screen.

You set yourself down and make a cup of mint tea you find in the pantry, and spend the rest of the night thinking of your daughter.

You think of what she'll look… what she'll sound like. What it'd be like to have her in your life.

And you think of her smile…

Of the smiles you'll never see and the moments that you'll never see.

But at least she'll _smile_ at _all_.

You can accept the fact that what you're doing is **right**. For _you_ **and** your daughter. You're still a child yourself, and you want to go to college and make something of yourself. You want your daughter to be happy, and you don't want her to struggle to live, because you have no way to financially support yourself.

You accept it.

Because Rachel told you your heart was in the right place.

And you trust Rachel with your life.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thanks for all the support, everyone. If you haven't yet, check out my story **Just A Kiss**, it's about Rachel and 'Lucy' Quinn Fabray :) Review if you'd like me to write more, I'd love to hear feedback.


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